


The Sun Also Rises

by meggannn (orphan_account)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Beaches, Drama, M/M, Romance, Summer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-08-10
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/meggannn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exploring a beach town by night with intriguing local Atem was never how Yugi imagined spending the summer - but it sure beat everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. no place like home

The e-mails always had the same basic contents.

 _Hi Yugi!_

 _I hope this reaches you, and I hope your classes are good. I am doing well here. A lot of students and kids around your age are getting into the new Duel Monsters game. Do you remember that one? I might have sent you a few booster packs for your birthday when you were little, but it's very popular now, apparently. I've been playing it a lot lately. I could show you sometime, if you'd like._

 _I really hope you'll consider coming to visit once you're done with school. It would be fun, and make the summer that much more special for everyone. Just come anytime. I'd love to see you before you head off to college._

 _Love,  
Grandpa_

An exclamation mark in the greeting, well wishes (most often with school), mentioning the game shop, and asking for me to visit. I always respond with a polite "My classes are doing well, of course I remember Duel Monsters, yeah maybe sometime, but I'm kind of busy and I'll get back to you, okay? Love, Yugi" or something of the sort. To be honest, I just didn't have the time. Of course I loved my grandfather and of course I wanted to see more of him, but the thought of actually visiting him, living in the small apartment over the game shop and having only him for company day in and day out… it just didn't appeal to me.

My mother could understand. "You should be focusing on school," was her second-favorite phrase to quote to me, and I knew it, along with all the others, by heart. "I love Solomon, don't get me wrong, but he should understand that you're a very smart young man, Yugi, and you need to study if you want to keep your grades up."

I knew that wasn't the only reason. Ever since grandpa moved from Domino and started up the game shop in Owl City a few hundred miles away, it had turned into a kind of "us and them" with my mother and the rest of the world. My parents' divorce was a messy one, and since then, she's thrown herself into work, claiming it's what she's always wanted: no husbandly distractions, and a blank slate, as if my father had never even existed. The only proof was me. And Grandpa.

But with Grandpa's new town, new job, new store, new neighborhood… it seemed as if he had a whole new life, and even though he was always inviting me to come, I wasn't sure if I wanted to find out if there was still a place for me in it.

Now, from the other room, I heard a sudden burst of laughter, followed by some clinking of glasses. My mother was hosting another of her graduate student get-togethers, which always began as formal dinners before morphing into drunken debates about literature and theory. I glanced at the clock – ten thirty – before easing my bedroom door open and peering down the stairs. Sure enough, I could see my mother in the dining room, glass of red wine in her hand as she laughed at something. Gathered around her, as usual, were a bunch of male graduate students, looking on adoringly as she went on about Marlowe or the culture of women or whatever.

This was one of the many intriguing contradictions about my mom. She was an expert on women in literature but didn't much like them in reality. I suspected it was mostly because the majority of them were jealous: she was intelligent, she had a scholarship, she had looks (not that I admired them; but really, I had to admit she was an attractive woman)… For these reasons, among others, female students rarely came to these sorts of gatherings. Or, if they did, they seldom returned.

"Dr. Mutou," one of the students – typically scruffy, with a cheap-looking blazer, shaggy hair, and hip-nerdy glasses – said now, "you should really consider developing an idea into that article. It's fascinating."

I watched my mother take a sip of her wine, pushing her black hair behind an ear. "Oh, God no," she said. "I barely even have time to write my book right now, and that, at least, I'm getting paid for. If you call it a payment."

More complimentary laughter. My mother loved to complain about how little she got paid for her books – all academic, published by university presses – while what she termed "insane housewife stories" pulled in big bucks. In my mother's utopia, everyone would drag the collected works of Shakespeare to the beach, listening to classical stations in their car radio while keeping the windows rolled up and hands on the wheel at two and ten at all times.

"Still," Nerdy Eyeglasses said, continuing on, "it's a brilliant idea. I could, um, coauthor it with you, if you like."

My mother lifted her head, and if you didn't know her well enough, you would have missed the way her eyes narrowed just so as silence fell. "Oh, my," she said, "how sweet of you. But I don't do coauthorship, for the same reason I don't do office mates or relationships. I'm just too selfish."

I could see Nerdy Eyeglasses gulp, even from my long vantage point, as he reached for another glass. _Idiot_ , I thought, nudging the door back shut. As if it were that easy to align yourself with my mom, form some quick and tight bond that would last. I would know.

Ten minutes later, I slipped out the back door and got into my car. I drove down the mostly empty streets, past quiet houses and dark storefronts, until the lights of Rey's Diner shone through the darkness. It was small, with entirely too much neon, and tables that were always a bit sticky, but it was the only place in the city open twenty-four hours, 365 days a year, that didn't have drunks and naked women during ungodly hours. I'd spent more nights than not in a booth there, reading or studying, tipping a buck every hour on whatever I ordered until the sun appeared.

The insomnia started when my parents' marriage started to crumble, about three years earlier. I shouldn't have been surprised, really: they'd always been tumultuous since forever, though they were usually arguing more about work then about each other.

They'd originally come to the university straight out of grad school, when my mom was offered an assistant professorship there. At the time, my dad had just found a publisher for his first novel, while my mom was pregnant with me and trying to finish her dissertation. Fast-forward four years, and my dad was riding a wave of critical and commercial success – best-seller lists, National Book Award nominee – while my mom was, as she liked to put it, "lost in a sea of diapers and self-doubt." When I started school, though, my mom came back to academia with a vengeance, scoring a visiting lectureship and a publisher for her dissertation. Over time, she became one of the most popular professors in her department, was hired on for a full-time position, and banged out a second, then third book, all while my father looked on. He claimed to be proud, always making jokes about her being his meal ticket, the breadwinner of the family. But then my mother got her endowed chair, which was very prestigious, and he got dropped from his publisher, which wasn't, and things started to get ugly.

The fights usually began over dinner, with one of them making some small remark and the other taking offense. Sharp words, a banged pot lid, and then everything would suddenly seem resolved… at least until ten or eleven, when I'd hear the sounds of bickering downstairs creeping up to my bedroom. I figured out later on that they had just been waiting for me to fall asleep before starting the argument up again from where it had been dropped at dinner. I decided, one night, to stay up. I left my door open, lights on, took obvious trips to the bathroom, being as loud as possible while tromping to and from my room. And for a while, it worked. Until it didn't, and the fights started up again. But by then my body was used to staying up late, which meant I was now awake for every single word.

I know a lot of people whose parents split, and they all handle it differently: complete surprise, crushing disappointment, total relief. But there was always at least one long talk about feelings, either with both parents or one-on-one separately or with a shrink in group or individual therapy. It didn't matter, and my family was no exception. I did get the sit-down-we-have-to-tell-you-something moment. The news was delivered by my mother, across the kitchen table as my father leaned against the counter, fiddling with his hands and looking tired. "Your father and I are separating," she informed me with the same flat, businesslike tone I'd so often heard her use with students as she critiqued their work. "I'm sure you'll agree this is best for all of us."

Even as a child, I could tell my grandfather was not surprised. Before long, he grew tired of mediating their arguments, instead retiring to bed early to miss them as I stayed up to catch them. When they finally split, my father moving out and away forever, Grandpa said that he would be remaining with his daughter-in-law and grandson "because Yugi needs me now more than ever." But it was obvious he didn't agree with their decision, didn't approve of his son's actions, and didn't think I should be left alone with my clearly "unstable" mother when I was at such a critical development age.

This never really made much sense to me. I have always been the little adult, the child who, at three, would sit at the table during grown-up discussions about literature and color my coloring books, not making a peep. The child who learned to entertain myself at a very early age, who was obsessive about grades from since day one of school, because academia was the one thing that always got my parents' attention. "Oh, don't worry," my mother would say when one of her guests would slip with a swear word or something equally adult in front of me. "Yugi's very mature for his age."

I was, in a way. But because of this upbringing, I kind of had a hard time relating to other kids my age. I was the quiet one at the back of the room, reading a book or playing a game or doing a puzzle by myself. I didn't really see, or care, about what the other kids did, because in the end, riding bikes and playing tag and making mud pies and whacking other people over the head with toy trucks wasn't something that I could understand the purpose of. It seemed too different from what I was used to. And it wasn't, of course, the type of activity my parents favored.

School was my main solace, and studying let me escape. The more my parents bemoaned the lack of acceptable grades in the country for students my age, the harder I worked. And while they were proud of me, the accomplishments never seemed to get me where I wanted. As such a smart kid, I should have realized that the only way to get their attention was to flunk or disappoint them. But by the time I realized that, succeeding was already a habit too ingrained to break.

My father moved out to an apartment on the edge of the city, and I was supposed to spend every weekend there, but he was in such a funk – still struggling with his second book, his publication (or lack of it), his bachelorhood – that it wasn't really enjoyable. Then again, my mother's house wasn't much better, what with her celebrations of her newfound single status and academic success. She had people over all the time, students coming and going, dinner parties every Friday and Saturday nights. It seemed like there was no middle ground anywhere, except Rey's Diner.

I'd driven past it a thousand times but never thought of stopping until one night when I was heading back to my mom's around two in the morning. My father, like my mom, didn't really keep close tabs on me. I came and went as I pleased, with little or no questioning, so neither really noticed that I wasn't sleeping. That night, I glanced in at Rey's, and something about it just struck me. It looked warm, safe almost, populated by people I seemed to have something in common with. So I pulled in, walked inside, and ordered a cup of coffee and some apple pie. I stayed until sunrise.

The nice thing about Rey's was that even once I became a regular, I still got to be alone. Nobody was asking for more than I wanted to give, and all the interactions were short and sweet. If only all relationships could be so simple.

Back in the fall, one of the waitresses, a heavyset older woman whose nametag said  _Yumi_ , had peered down at the application I was working on as she refilled my coffee cup.

"Kobe University," she read out loud, then looked at me. "Pretty good school."

"One of the best," I agreed.

"Think you'll get in?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I do."

She smiled, like I was kind of cute, then patted my shoulder. "Ah, to be young and confident," she said, then shuffled away.

But I wasn't confident; I just worked really hard. There were worlds when all of this – grades, school, papers, class rank, weighted GPAs – mattered, and onces where they didn't. I'd spent my entire life in the former, and even at Rey's, which was obviously in the latter, I couldn't shake it.

So yeah, I suppose I'd missed out on making all those high school moments that people would chat about between classes. The only thing I'd really ever considered was prom, because it was apparently a really big deal and everyone should go at least once since it's something you remember forever through pictures that you put up online to share, but in the end, I decided against it, told myself it was just like the other things other kids did years ago: frivolous and unnecessary. But I still kind of wondered, that night and many others, what I was missing.

I'd be sitting at Rey's, two or three or four in the morning, and feel this weird kind of twinge. When I looked up from my books to the people around – truckers, people who'd come off the interstate, the occasional crazy – I'd have this weird feeling. Like I didn't belong there, and should have been home, asleep in my bed, like everyone else I'd see at school in a few hours. But just as quickly, it would pass, and things would be fine. And when Yumi came back around with her coffeepot, I'd push my cup to the edge of the table, and say without words what we both knew well – that I'd be staying for a while.

* * *

I'd been so focused on my last year of high school and college that I hadn't really thought about the time in between. Suddenly, though, it was summer, and there was nothing to do but wait for my real life to begin again.

I spent a couple of weeks getting ready for Kobe, and tried to pick up a few shifts at my tutoring job, but that was pretty slow. Home was kind of weird as well, as my mother had gotten some research grant and was working all the time. And when she wasn't, her grad assistants were always showing up for impromptu dinners and cocktail hours. When they got too noisy and the house too crowded, I'd head out to the front porch with a book and read until it was dark enough to go to Rey's.

"That your speech?" my mother asked me as she walked into the dining room. I was sitting at the table and flicking through another couple of index cards covered with notes and cues.

"Yeah," I said. I wasn't really keen on the whole idea of me getting up in front of the entire class, their relatives, and school administration to deliver the speech, but there weren't many others qualified to do so, and they were counting on me now.

She was reading my cards, and I felt the familiar twinge I always experienced when under her scrutiny. A moment later, though, she put them aside without comment.

"Your father is dating," she said finally.

I blinked. "Oh?"

"A young woman named Akemi. I heard her loud voice over the phone." I didn't lift my eyes from my cards, but I could still sense her nose was wrinkling as she said this, as if this Akemi woman wasn't worthy to lick the underside of her boot. "I'm not surprised. It wouldn't be long before he shacked up with some coed."

I'd knew my mother's language. Akemi, judging from the wording – "loud voice," "shacked up," "some coed" – was probably the kind of woman whose strengths were her constant self-maintenance. Pedicures, manicures, hair highlights – the kind of person knowing everything you never wanted to about hemlines and shoes, and sending entirely too chatty e-mails to people who couldn't care less.

"Why are you talking to Dad?" I asked, to get her mind off of this woman. Judging by the way my mother's eyes narrowed, I asked the wrong question.

"He called  _me_ ," she clarified, then snorted. "Inquired as to how I was, then conveniently mentioned his girlfriend as she chatted in the background. As if he needs to reassure me – or possibly just himself, really, it wouldn't be surprising – that he's doing just fine without us."

"You think he isn't?"

"I think he's rubbing this in my face, thinking it'll do some good." She leaned back in her chair, huffing out a breath of air. "Ridiculous."

I was used to my mother's cynical outlook on the world. It was one of the few things she wasn't able to pass onto me, something I wasn't sure I ever wanted. "I don't know if he'd do that," I said, shrugging, as if this would make my words sound more casual, and this wasn't such a big deal.

"Of course he would," she snapped, though I understood it wasn't me she was upset with, as always. "I know his behavior, and how he acts. It's entirely like him."

"Well," I said as she took another sip of coffee, "maybe he's changed."

"People don't change," she told me. Her favorite mantra, the one I've heard the most, her entire mentality. "If anything, you get more set in your ways as you get older, not less." She shook her head. "I remember I used to sit in our bedroom, with you crying, an infant, and just wish that the door would open and he would hold out his hands and say, 'Here, give him to me. You go rest.' Eventually, it wasn't even your dad I wanted, just anybody. Anybody at all."

She was looking out the window as she said this, fingers wrapped around the mug, which was not on the table or at her lips but hovering between. I picked up my cards, carefully arranging them back in order. "I should get ready," I said, pushing my chair back to get up.

She didn't move as I got up and walked behind her. It was like she was frozen, still back in that old bedroom, waiting until I went to sleep again. Then, she spoke.

"You should rethink that Faulkner quote," she said. "It's too much for an opening. You'll sound pretentious."

I looked down at my top cards, where the words "The past isn't dead. It isn't even the past" were written in black ink. "Okay," I said. She was right, of course. She always was. "Thanks."

That night was a typical one. By eleven, my mother's admirers were still hanging around, their voices loud as always. I was lying in my room, staring at a certain scuff mark on the ceiling that I concentrated on as my mind swirled. Eventually I turned over, now lying sideways, and faced the picture frame that sat on my stand, inches away from my nose. It held a picture of my mother, father and grandfather, before I was born. My mother's belly was swollen and they were standing with smiles underneath the bright lights of Tokyo, back when things were fine. Underneath, engraved into the frame, were the words "The Best of Times."

Something about these words, and those easily, smiling faces, reminded me of the chatter of the people in the hallways of school as they traded stories from parties and social gatherings. Not about classes, or GPAs, but other stuff, things that were as foreign to me as Tokyo itself, gossip and girls and boys and getting your heart broken. They probably had a million pictures that belonged in this frame, but I didn't have a single one.

I looked at us eighteen years ago. Travel did seem to provide some kind of opportunity, as well as a change of scenery. Maybe I couldn't take off to Tokyo. But I could still go somewhere.

I went over to my laptop, opening my e-mail account, and went to my grandfather's message. Without letting myself think too much, I typed a quick reply, as well as a question. Within half an hour, he had written me back.

 _Absolutely, you should come! Stay as long as you like. I'd love the company._

Which is why I was now packing my car with my small duffel bag of clothes, my laptop, and a big suitcase of books. Earlier in the summer I'd found the syllabi to a couple of the courses I was taking at Kobe in the fall, and I'd hunted down a few of the textbooks at the university's bookstore, figuring it couldn't hurt to get accustomed to the material. Not exactly what my grandfather probably wanted me to pack, but it wasn't like there'd be much else to do there anyway, other than go to the beach and hang out in the game shop, neither of which sounded very appealing.

I'd said good-bye to my mom the night before, figuring she'd be asleep when I left. But as I came into the kitchen, I found her clearing wineglasses and crumpled napkins off the table, a tired look on her face.

"Long night?" I asked, though I had known, given how I'd seen the last car pull out of the driveway at one-thirty, that it had been.

"Not really," she said, running some water into the sink. She looked over her shoulder at my bags, piled by the garage door. "You're getting an early start. That eager to get away from me?"

"No," I said, "I just want to beat traffic."

In truth, I wasn't sure if she really cared if I'd be around for the summer or not. But it didn't matter. At least it was somewhere.

"I can't imagine what kind of situation you're about to walk into," she said, smiling. "Solomon, running his own game shop in a tiny beach town… it's almost comical."

"I'll let you know," I told her.

"You'll have to help him out, you know," she said, sticking her hands into the water and soaping up a glass. "He's taken on more than he can chew with that store. The tiny business must be incredibly slow. Get a part-time job down there to help pull in some kind of income. Lord knows he could probably use the extra money."

That wasn't entirely fair. "Grandpa's been taking care of himself for a while," I reasoned. "He's probably learned a lot, knows the tricks and all. You never know. Maybe I'll get there and find out that he doesn't want the small business anymore, and his shop has evolved into a three-story complex that sells games to people three cities over."

My mom turned around and narrowed her eyes at me, ignoring my crack at a joke. "Now, Yugi," she said. "What have I told you about people changing?"

"That they don't?"

"Exactly."

She directed her attention back to the sink, dunking a plate, and as she did I spotted the pair of black, hip-nerdy eyeglass sitting on the counter by the door. And it suddenly made sense: the voices I'd heard so late, her being up early, uncharacteristically eager to clean out everything from the night before. I considered picking up the glasses, making sure she saw me, to make a point of my own. But instead, I ignored them as we said our goodbyes, her pulling me in for a tight hug – she always held you close, like she'd never let go – before doing just that and sending me on my way.


	2. stranger in a strange land

Owl City couldn't really be considered a city. It was more of a small town, bordering the ocean, that had small houses, a boardwalk, and a long beach that ran down the coast. Enjoying the scenery that rolled by the windows to my right was a nice distraction from thinking about how horribly I'd preformed my speech in front of the rest of my classmates at graduation. My mother couldn't understand my fear of public speaking: "They're just people," she'd tell me. "People that probably won't be paying attention anyway, as much as they should, so just go out there, read from the page if you must, and sit back down."

But it hadn't worked, and after stuttering through the damn thing as female students giggled, parents clucked their tongues, and teachers murmured their sympathy, a small, polite round of applause had sounded as I barely managed to step off the stage without tripping. So far, that had been the biggest event of the summer, and I didn't want to deal with anything else for the next few months. I didn't want to think about the speech, about my father and his girlfriend, about my mother and Nerdy Eyeglasses… I just wanted to study in peace and get ready for the university.

I sighed as my hand cramped up on the steering wheel. I flexed and stretched it a little bit before placing it back on the plastic.

Grandpa had said that I'd recognize the shop when I saw it. That didn't really help me direction-wise: all I knew was that it was on Uno Road, which seemed to be the longest street in this tiny place. I was passing by white houses, green shutters, wide porches, and potted flowers. All that was missing were picket fences.

I saw it now. There it was, conveniently with the word "GAME" on the slanted roof. I pulled in, spotting my grandfather's beat-up Volvo in the driveway. As soon as I cut the engine I could suddenly hear the sound of the ocean, loud enough that it had to be close. I got out of the car and peered around the shop; sure enough, behind another block of tiny houses, I could see beach grass and wide blue water, reaching out into the horizon.

The scenery aside, I had my doubts. I was never spontaneous, and the farther I got from my mom's place, the more I started to consider the reality of a full summer in Owl City. Would my grandfather make me help out in the shop? Would he introduce me to all of the teenagers in the area? Would he insist on bonding with me over games of chess?

I stopped myself there. That was pretty unfair of me to assume he'd be that kind of relative. Just because I haven't spoken to him in a while doesn't mean that he'd changed a lot.

My mother's words,  _People don't change_ , drifted back into my head. I ignored them and walked up to the front door, knocking on it loud enough to shake my thoughts.

Besides, I'd be bored at home, spending most of my time looking at that stupid Tokyo picture. At least this was a nice way to hang out with my grandpa before the university, and real life, began.

No one opened the door. I frowned, and, after waiting another minute, knocked again, this time pressing a doorbell that I hadn't noticed before. When nobody answered, I gently tried the doorknob, and it swung open smoothly as if it had been waiting for me all along.

I blinked and stepped into the small hallway, looking around. The doorway to the kitchen was on the left, the stairs on my right. I took a few steps further into the house and called out, "Hello?" No response. "Grandpa?"

The screen door banged shut behind me and I turned left, walking past the kitchen and into the small hallway that led to the game shop. I gently cracked the door open and peered into the small store. The lights were off, and there was a sign in the window; from this angle I could see the "OPEN" side, so to customers outside, the store was closed. Despite this, someone was rapping on the glass – a blonde kid, with lanky limbs and flip-flops – and peering inside. As I walked through the door and into the shop, he noticed me, crinkling his nose as he squinted to make out my profile. I walked over and opened the door for him.

"Can I help you?" I asked, even though I knew I probably couldn't.

"Uh," he began. "Yeah, uh, I'm here for my shift. Is Gra – Mr. Mutou in there?"

"I don't think so," I said. "I just got here myself, but it looks like he's out. You work here?"

"From three to seven, every few days," he replied. "I usually take the afternoon shift because I don't wake up early enough in the morning to start at eleven." He shrugged. "You know how it is."

I didn't, actually, but I refrained from saying so. "Right, yeah." I looked back inside, as if I was expecting Grandpa standing behind me, telling me whether to trust this kid or not. "Okay, come on in. Do you know what to do?"

"Usually he stays with me for about half an hour just to reassure himself I won't blow the place up," the guy said sheepishly. "I've only been working here for about a week. Needed a part-time job so I can pull in some cash, and Mr. Mutou said he needed someone to help out, so I figured I might as well. It's pretty cool. By the way, who are you?"

"I'm Yugi. I'm Solomon's grandson." I held out my hand and he took it, pumping it once enthusiastically.

"I'm Joey. Nice to meetcha, Yug."

I blinked at the sporadic nickname, but didn't question it. As he wandered over to the back and flicked on the lights, I asked, "So do you need any help with anything, or…?"

Joey lifted a box of Duel Monsters packs that I hadn't noticed from underneath the counter at the back of the room. "Uh… You could help stack these, if you like."

"Yugi?"

Grandpa was in the doorway, a bag of groceries tucked in an arm. I ran forward to take them, despite his protests on how he had it, and I hugged him with my open arm as he embraced me with both. "It's good to see you, Grandpa."

"And you as well, my boy," he said. I could hear the smile in his voice. He leaned back and waved at Joey. "I see you've met my new assistant. You all right, Joey?"

"I think I've got it," the blonde said. "I'll take over from here until seven."

"Good." Grandpa surveyed the room. "I saw a few college regulars hanging out down at the boardwalk, so maybe they'll come around after a while. Bring out those Duel Monsters packs for them, would you?"

"They're here," Joey said, and I could see he was already setting them up near the cash register, the place where most people make last-minute decisions and buy whatever they see nearest to them. It was nice placement.

Grandpa chuckled. "I taught you well. Okay, now Yugi?"

"Yes?"

"I hate to cut this reunion short, but I have to work on some taxes. I actually thought you would be arriving later this afternoon. They need to be sent out by tonight; I suppose that's what I get for procrastinating. But let me show you your room and we can have dinner later. Does that sound good?"

"Sounds great."

I followed him back into the house and up the stairs. He pushed open the door closest to us and waved me in. "It's kind of small," he said apologetically, "but it's got a great view."

He wasn't kidding. The room was indeed small, with only a twin bed, a bureau, and not much room for anything else, but the two windows at the back of the room gave me a widespread view that the ground hadn't. From here, over the tops of the other small houses, all I could see were sea grass, sand, and small waves washing up on shore.

"This is great," I said, and meant it.

"Isn't it?" he agreed. "I was going to make this my office, but I knew I would get tired of trekking up and down the stairs, so I moved downstairs." He paused. "Speaking of which, I'd better get to it. Do you mind if I catch up with you later?"

I checked my watch. 3:07. "Sure."

He squeezed my shoulder and turned around, walking out of the room, humming a mindless tune. A moment after his steps down the stairs, I heard a door click shut.

* * *

I woke up around a quarter to seven to the sound of Joey yelling out a goodbye to my grandfather as he left the store. I wandered out of my room and down the stairs, watching through the kitchen window as the blonde walked off to the boardwalk. Inside the shop, Grandpa was sweeping the floor.

"You're closing up?" I asked.

"Mhm." He hung the broom up, deposited the trash in the bin behind the counter, and flicked off the lights as he came back into the house. "Not too many customers today after those college kids. I've still got to finish those ruddy papers… But would you like some dinner?"

"Now? Oh, uh, sure." I checked the time again: ten minutes until seven. "Want me to go pick it up somewhere and bring it back?"

"That would be wonderful," he told me. "You know, just two blocks away, there's this great burger place. Could you get me a cheeseburger and some of those onion rings? They're delicious."

"Okay," I said. He made to pull out his wallet but I turned before he could give me the money, pretending to not notice the gesture. "I'll be back in a bit. See you then."

Outside the house, all I could hear were the ocean waves and various neighborhood sounds – kids playing, an occasional car radio, someone's TV – as I walked down the street to where the neighborhood ended and the business district began. There was a narrow boardwalk, lined with various shops: a smoothie place, one of those beach-crap joints that sells cheap towels and shell clocks, a pizzeria. There was a small boutique, as well, and a few girls were chatting in front of it underneath a bright orange awning.

I could see what had to be the burger joint up ahead: "Burger World," the sign said. Just before it, there was one last store, a bike shop. Gathered around it were a few guys my age, including Joey, all hanging on a battered wooden bench outside, talking and watching people pass by.

"No, that's lame," one of them, a skinny kid with long black hair and a dice earring was saying. "The Crankshaft sounds like a car shop, not a bike place."

"Bikes have cranks," another brunette guy told him.

"And cars have shafts."

"So do mines," his friend pointed out.

"You want to call it the Mine Shaft now?"

"No," the brunette guy said as the others laughed. "I'm just saying the context doesn't have to be exclusive."

"Who cares about the context?" The dice guy sighed. "What we need is a name that jumps out and sells products. 'Zoom Bikes.' Or 'Overdrive Bikes.'"

"How do you go into overdrive on a bike?" another guy, this one with pale hair and his back to me, asked.

"I don't know." Dice Guy threw his hands up. "Do you have any suggestions?"

I didn't hear if the white-haired guy had any, because I stepped into Burger World at this point, and lost track of the conversation. Inside, there was a line of people waiting to be seated and two cooks visible through a small kitchen window, racing around as orders piled up. I gave mine to a pretty girl wearing a ponytail whose nametag said "Miho," then took a seat by the window to wait for it. Glancing down the boardwalk, I could see the guys still gathered around the bench: Joey was now sitting down, his arms stretched behind his head, laughing, as his dice friend rode a bike back and forth in front of him, doing little hops every so often.

It took a while for the food to be ready, but I soon realized Grandpa was right: it was worth the wait. I was digging into the onion rings before I even got out the door to the boardwalk, which by then was crowded with families eating ice-cream cones, couples on dates, and tons of kids running around in the sand. In the distance, there was a gorgeous sunset, all orange and pink, and I kept my eyes on it as I walked, not even looking over at the bike shop until I was almost past it.

"Hey, Yug!"

I turned. It was Joey, waving at me. His friends were busy doing bike tricks, and standing next to him was now a short-haired brunette girl that I had seen hanging out in front of the boutique before. Curious, I walked over.

"Hey," I said, in greeting.

"Yeah, I know that we're not especially close or anything…" he began, rubbing the back of his neck and looking as if he was having second thoughts about calling me over. "But anyway, just in case you didn't have anything going on tonight, there's a bonfire at the Tip. Just a party thing. You seem cool, so I figured, if you were bored, then you're definitely invited. So… yeah. Uh…"

I was saved the pressure of answering this; the brunette rolled her eyes suddenly, heaving an exasperated sigh. "I'm Téa," she said. "Nice to meet you. Joey tells me your name is Yugi?"

"Yeah," I said, confused.

"He mentioned that Mr. Mutou's grandson – you – were in town, and that he'd run into you back at the shop. I told him that if you seemed like an all right fellow, he should invite you to the bonfire tonight so the gang could meet you. Joey, I don't know why you're acting so weird about this."

"That's because guys can't just invite other guys to parties," Joey informed her, as if he were being asked to explain a theory like, oh, quantum physics. "Guys can invite girls and girls can invite girls, but guys can't invite other guys because then it's awkward."

"Why's that?"

"I don't know, it just  _is_."

"Well, whatever. So Yugi." She turned to me again. "You're welcome to come, if you want. Don't let this idiot intimidate you."

"Who are you calling – ?"

"Thanks," I said, smiling. "I'll see if I can make it."

She nodded and smiled back before Joey pulled her back into discussing the dynamics of male and female teenagerdom. I left them there, if only because I had no idea about it myself. If my experience with friends was sparse, what I knew about girls and boys – other than as competitors for grades or class ranks – was nonexistent.

Not to say that I hadn't had crushes. Back in freshman year, there was this girl in my science class, hopeless at equations, who always made my palms sweat whenever we got paired for experiments. In junior year, I'd awkwardly flirted with a pretty blonde girl whose name I forget; she sat next to me in calculus, but everyone had been in love with her, so that hardly made me special. It wasn't until I met Ichigo in late eleventh grade that I thought I might actually have a shot at a love life. She was smart, good-looking, and seriously on the rebound after her boyfriend dumped her for, in her words, "a juvenile delinquent with a skanky tattoo." We spent a fair amount of time together, battling it out for valedictorian, and when she'd asked me out to prom I'd been more excited than I would have admitted. Until she backed out, citing the "great opportunity" of the ecology conference. "I knew you'd be okay with this," she'd said to me as I nodded, dumbly, hearing the news. "You understand what's really important."

It wasn't like she'd called me hot or good-looking. But it was a compliment, in its own way.

Back at the house, I found two plates and some silverware, then set the table and put out the food. I was shaking ketchup packets out into a pile when Grandpa wandered in.

"I thought I smelled onion rings," he said, rubbing his hands together. "This looks great."

We dug in. Halfway through my burger, I asked him, "So how is the shop doing?"

"Not bad," he said, finishing his cheeseburger off with a glass of water. "Not bad at all. Much better than I expected. A lot more kids your age are into board and card games than I'd originally anticipated."

"That's great," I said.

He cleaned up his plate as I worked on my burger – he always had been a fast eater – and I told him I'd wash the dishes.

Grandpa gave me a weird look, just staring at me, before he said, "You're my guest, Yugi. And it's summer. You're young. You shouldn't be doing stuff like this."

I opened my mouth to tell him "stuff like this" were considered chores back home, chores that I was used to doing – but he cut me off: "You know, there's a place called the Tip, just down the road from there. All the kids from the shop hang out there at night. You should go check it out. It has to be better than this, right?"

I thought about it for a long moment. Despite my usually anti-social nature, it was starting to sound rather appealing for reasons I couldn't fathom. "Yeah. Maybe."

* * *

That "maybe" was turning into a very strong "possibly" an hour later. I had unpacked my clothes, tried to crack my future Econ 101 textbook, and cleaned out all the messages on my phone. All of which took forty minutes. At that point, I finally grabbed a jacket, pulled my hair back, and went out for a walk.

I wasn't really planning on going to the Tip, whatever or wherever it was. I just wanted some air. But after I walked in the opposite direction from the boardwalk for about a block, the sidewalk ended in a cul-de-sac, a bunch of parked cars crowded along the edges. On one side I could see a rough path carved out by footprints, and a light was in the distance. This was probably a mistake, I thought, but then I thought of Tokyo inside that picture frame back home, and I followed it anyway.

* * *

It was about three in the morning when I left the beach, wandering back up the path. My head was a little fuzzy from the alcohol I had, for some reason, said yes to, and I was carrying my shoes in one hand because I wasn't sure if I would be strong enough to push myself back up if I leaned down to put them on.

There had been a bunch of people gathered on some small peninsula, sitting on driftwood piled up in makeshift benches while others stood around where a good-size blaze was going. A large truck was parked off to one side, a keg in the bed, and that was where I'd seen and spent the majority of my time there, hanging out with Joey and Téa and a few of their other friends, before I decided to leave.

I did have a good time. I did. But I just wasn't sure if it was for me yet. And I didn't want to stay and find out that it wasn't. Maybe it was that I just needed a distraction from my own problems. Whatever the reason, I found myself stepping back over the dunes and onto the path.

I didn't know where I was going. I just followed my feet, kept on walking up the boardwalk and past the small houses. By the time I got to the business district, the sounds of the party had been swallowed up by the ocean waves and the steps of my bare feet on the boardwalk.

I'd walked all the way to Burger World before I finally saw another person, and even then they were far off in the distance, just a speck and some movement. It wasn't until I came up to the orange awning of the boutique that I realized it was someone on a bike. He – it was a guy – was in a spot where the boardwalk opened up to the beach, and I watched, squinting, as he went up on the front wheel, hopping a few feet, then easing back down, spinning the handlebars. Then he was pedaling backwards, zigzagging, before suddenly speeding forward, hitting a nearby bench and then bouncing off again. The movements were almost hypnotic, so fluid; I didn't notice that I was getting closer, that my feet were still moving, before he noticed me and skidded to a stop.

He wasn't exactly friendly – no hello. But then, I hadn't said anything either. We just kind of stood there, looking at each other. I would have called it awkward, but for some reason things just seemed comfortable, like they always did at this time of night.

I let out a sudden yawn. "Oh," I said over it. He was watching me, and for some strange reason, I felt compelled to add, "I'm… it's been a long night."

He looked at me again; his expression was so serious. I could see, in the dim lighting, that he had hair kind of like mine, with blonde bangs on otherwise dark locks. He looked a bit taller, though, and leaner, than I did. My observations were interrupted after a moment when he nodded, then said, "Aren't they all."

I hadn't the faintest clue what this meant, but I opened my mouth anyway to say something – to agree, at least – but he didn't give me the chance for he was already pedaling backwards. No good-bye, no nothing, just a spin of the handlebars, and he was rising up on the pedals and riding away. Instead of a straight line, he moved down the boardwalk from side to side, making large arcs, slowly, all the way to the end.


	3. the saltwater room

"Here."

I looked down: sitting in front of me was a plump, perfect blueberry muffin. I squinted at it, trying to understand.

"I remember they were your favorites," Grandpa said. "I got the berries this morning, from the farmer's market, and made them fresh."

"You didn't have to do this…"

"No, I didn't," he told me, smiling. "But I felt like it."

It was three in the afternoon, and I'd just come down from a good eight hours of sleep to find him in the kitchen, rinsing out the mixing bowl. I was headed straight for the coffeemaker, but before I even knew what was happening he'd blindsighted me with a pat on the shoulder and baked goods.

I peeled back the muffin wrapper, taking a bite instead of responding. It was still warm. Delicious. "This is really good," I said.

"Glad you like it," he said, and then checked the clock. "Joey should've been here by now…"

As if on cue, a loud knock on the door was heard; but then the door opened anyway to reveal the lanky blonde wearing a white t-shirt and cami shorts. He wandered into the kitchen, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Barely made it," he said, glancing at the clock. "Sorry, I slept in late today; long party last night…"

"No worries," Grandpa told him, then nodded at the counter. "The keys are over there; I'll be there to help you set up in a few minutes. Let me finish cleaning up these dishes first."

Joey nodded, then picked up the keys and headed over to the door that led to the shop. I heard it swing open and saw a light being turned on as he bustled around, opening up for the afternoon.

I looked to my grandfather. "You keep the front door to the house unlocked?"

"Sure do."

When did my grandfather become Canadian? "You're not worried that…?"

"Not really. People are friendly around these parts." He finished cleaning up and then, whipping his hands on a towel, said, "That reminds me – did you have a nice time at the party last night?"

"I – well yeah, actually…"

"You sound surprised," he noticed, amused.

"I didn't think I'd know anybody," I confessed. "I was lucky Joey and some his friends were there."

"Oh, Téa and Tristan were there?"

"Yeah, and some guy with black hair with a dice earring…"

"That'd be Duke," he said, chuckling. "Yes, they're wonderful kids. They're around often. They own that bike shop down the boardwalk."

"Yeah," I said, remembering now. "They were having trouble coming up with a new name for it."

Grandpa thought for a moment. "Hmm. Well, they'll come up with something." He looked at me and shrugged, smiling. "They're probably hanging out there now. There's also an arcade down there, if you get bored. Sorry; I know I keep pushing this off, but I'll be tied up here for a while."

"That's okay. I'll find something to do," I said, wondering what he was pushing off.

"You could help me run my shift," Joey's voice sounded loudly, hopefully, from the storeroom. Grandpa rolled his eyes and laughed. I smiled nervously.

I didn't know what that meant. Was he seriously offering? If so, weird. If not, then I was overanalyzing things. Still, this sort of thing was all new to me. Offers to go to parties, to hang out with people my own age, talk and socialize and drink beer on the beech…

Perhaps in the world of teenagers, this was supposed to be a turning point. When Joey and I saw beyond our initial differences, realized we had something in common after all, and became best friends. But that was a concept I wasn't at all familiar with, and wasn't sure I wanted to know too well, even as just a visitor. So I just nodded at my grandfather, and walked out the door, leaving him, and Joey, and the possible opportunity, to do whatever they did without me while I was gone.

* * *

"So," my mother said, "tell me  _everything_."

It was late afternoon, and I'd been dead asleep when the phone rang. Even without looking at it, I knew it had to be her. It was her favorite time to talk, right at the start of cocktail hour. And it wasn't like I was expecting to hear from anyone else, except for maybe my father, who called on rare occasions from various areas of the world, usually in the middle of the night, having yet to grasp the concept of time zones.

"Well," I said, yawning, "it's really pretty here. The view's amazing."

"I'm sure it is," she replied. "But don't bore me with the scenery, I need details. How is your grandfather?"

I sighed. Amazing how she knew how to get to the one thing I didn't want to talk about. Every time. She always just knew.

Already I'd been here for three days. And the visions of my grandfather and I hanging out and bonding, sharing plates of onion rings and discussing games and my future were nonexistent. Grandpa was always either busy in the shop, doing taxes, sleeping, or out of the house. Our conversations usually took place in the hallway or on the stairs, a quick "How's it going? Been to the beach today?" as we passed each other. It sucked.

Joey, meanwhile, had surprisingly reached out even further. He was always offering me free gum, which apparently was sort of like a silent friend request. I accepted every time, though I always felt awkward sticking that stuff into my mouth, and sit there with it, chewing occasionally to suck out the flavor as he yabbed on about the bike shaft, or his friends, or today's weather, or this chick Mai that was like five years older than him and who he claimed was a total bitch, but was obvious about his major attraction to her.

He was just craving companionship. In the store, when Grandpa wasn't around, I was just a replacement for his real friends. But I was used to being alone; I liked it. Which was why it was surprising that I didn't avoid his conversations. Sometimes I even kept up my end, participating and moving the topic forward until his shift was done and he was free to go back to his life outside the shop.

I could have told my mother all of this. Then again, she really wouldn't be interested; she just wanted to know about my grandfather. She wanted to hear about how much struggle he was going through with the shop, and if not struggle, then she at least wanted some notion of his squirming to keep the money flow coming in. It was what she had expected, and therefore wanted, if only so she could say she was right. But to say this, to mention that Grandpa had hired Joey as his helper, seemed like a failure on my part. Which was totally weird. So I took a different track.

"Well," I said, "he's really busy. He's in his office a lot, or rushing between it and the store, all the time. He has an assistant, and they're taking care of the place pretty well."

A pause as she processed this. "Really."

"Yeah," I said. "He's doing okay. Shop's running well."

"Have you been helping out, or hanging with beach buddies?"

Both, actually. Sort of. Not really. Just once for the latter, and I could hardly call hanging out with Joey as he worked his shift as "helping out"…

"I've just been around," I said finally. "Exploring the town. It's tiny."

"I warned you," she said, though I don't recall her doing so.

"How are you?" I asked to change the topic.

"Me? Oh, well, you know. Same old, same old. I've been asked to head up the committee rewriting the English core courses for next year, with all the attendant drama that will entail. And I have several articles expected by various journals, my trip to Stratford coming up, and of course, entirely too many dissertations that clearly cannot be completed without a large amount of hand-holding on my part."

"Sounds eventful," I said, pulling the curtains on my window back.

"Tell me about it. These graduate students, God, it never ends. They're all so  _needy_." She sighed again, and I thought back to those black glasses sitting on the countertop. "I have half a mind to just leave for a while, like you, to go to the beach without a care in the world."

I looked out the window at the water, the white sand, and the Tip just beyond. Oh, yeah. That was me exactly.

A shout from downstairs called up, "Yugi? Dinner's ready!"

"Yugi?" my mother asked. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah," I said, "but dinner's ready, so I'd better go."

"Fine," she said. "Have a good time." She made it sound derogatory.

"I'll call you later," I said quickly, shutting my phone and tossing it on the bed, then leaving the room to go meet my grandfather downstairs.

* * *

Later that evening, Grandpa and I walked up to the boardwalk to a place right on the pier, where we ordered a pound of steamed shrimp and sat over the water. I think it was because I couldn't stop thinking about my mother's phone call which was why our conversation was a little stiff, awkward. After we had both endured some very dull very conversation, though, and the sun started to set, things loosened up, with him asking me about Kobe and my plans for my major. In turn I asked him about the shop, this town, and his own future plans, if he had any. Somewhere between the second pound of shrimp and his detailed explanation about the town's attractive simplicity and how he wouldn't mind seeing it every day, I was reminded of everything I loved about my grandfather: his serenity, his calm nature, and the way, when he was talking to you about something, it was like there was no one else in the room, or even the world.

"This really is an awesome town," I told him as the waitress dropped off our check. "The people here are really nice, and business can't be that bad if you're doing so well already."

"That's how I feel," he agreed. "Little to no competition around here, and I get to introduce all of these fascinating pastimes to those who never would have found them otherwise. That's why I wanted to start the game shop in the first place." He smiled at me, and I smiled back.

After dinner, we parted ways, as he left for the house and I drifted around the boardwalk. I passed the burger place, the boutique, and as I came in sights of the bike place, I heard a shout.

"Yugi!" It was Joey, waving me over. "Get over here, man."

I did so, confused, and saw the other guys – Tristan, Duke, and Bakura, I had learned their names were – hanging out on the wooden bench outside the shop.

"See, that joke from the Tip," Joey told me, and I looked at him, confused. "The one from the bonfire the other night. How did it go?"

Oh. That. "It wasn't very funny. I really don't know why I shared it."

"Joey keeps going on about how hilarious it was," Duke said. "Something about a panda and a bar. But he keeps screwing up the joke, so I think he wants you to tell it again."

"If you want," I said nervously. "It really isn't very funny, but all right." I went on to explain my stupid panda joke, how it had gone into a bar and ordered before shooting a gun into the air. In the bartender's confusion, the panda simply passed him a poorly-edited wildlife book, and in the panda section it read, 'Panda eats, shoots, and leaves.' I could feel my face growing hot; I must look like an idiot. This joke was dumb. Frigging panda.

At the end, Joey giggled at it some more, and surprisingly, Tristan let out a huff of laughter. Bakura said, "Ooohh," smiled, and shook his head while Duke raised an eyebrow. " _That's_  what had you in stitches, Joey?"

"Hey, it's  _funny_ ," he argued. "Unlike you and your stupid talking muffin joke – "

"Two muffins in an oven," Duke said loudly, arms spread wide, "One of them says, 'Hey, it's getting hot in here, isn't it?' and the other muffin says, 'Holy shit, a talking muffin!'" As Bakura pressed a palm to his face, almost in embarrassment that this was being shared again, Duke went on, "It was funny the first time you laughed at it."

"That's because I was drunk and didn't know better," the blonde argued. I was afraid this was actually going to turn into something before the girl from the bonfire – Téa – poked her head out from the bike shop door and said, "Hey, guys? You should… see this…"

They all hopped up and headed inside. I, not knowing if I was also being addressed, lagged behind until Duke reached out a hand and pulled me along. "Come on in, see the place. You ever heard of that good bike joke? I – "

"For God's sake, Duke, let it go," Tristan said as we headed past the main room, filled with wheels and shafts and all sorts of things I didn't know the name of, and into the hallway behind the counter. "He's probably heard it before, and if not, he doesn't want to."

"Just because you have no good jokes to bring to the table doesn't mean you have to – what the  _hell_  is this?"

We had reached the back room, and what a back room it was. The first thing I saw was pink. All four walls were covered in a rosy, almost bubble-gummy shade of wallpaper; what wasn't pink (which, at first glance, didn't seem like much) was orange. Even the filing cabinets – filing cabinets! – had pink and orange labels, and there was a pink feather boa wrapped around the top edges of the chair. There was the faintest smell of salt – probably saltwater, from the ocean, I figured, and looked around for a window to see how close the beach was; I found one, on the left, with a gorgeous view of the night ocean. On the windowsill was a bowl with water, a miniature castle, and a single fish swimming around. An orange goldfish. Whoever designed this room sure had a sense of humor.

Joey's face was arranging and disassembling itself into states of shock, horror, and exasperation, his mouth opening and closing while eyebrows rose and drew together as he looked around the room. Tristan closed his eyes tightly, as if willing this to be a dream that would right itself when he opened them again. Bakura drew a single, quiet hand, and raised it to cover his face. Duke just stared at Téa, eyes wide and narrowed with a frown so deep I thought it might be permanent.

"Don't look at  _me_ ," Téa said hotly to him. " _I_  didn't do this."

"Well then who the hell _did_?" Duke snapped. "This is right up your alley, doing stupid stuff like this just to piss us off, Téa – "

"Oh, my God," Joey finally croaked out, then began, "It… it looks like…"

" – the inside of a Starburst box," Tristan finished for him, eying the pink stacking bins. "Who  _did_ do this, then?"

"That's why we're asking you." Téa narrowed her eyes at Duke. "Did you piss anyone off recently? Lose a bet?"

"Why are you looking at me? Joey's just as liable to – "

"Hey, leave me out of this, dice-boy; with your stupid muffin jokes, you probably – "

"Well, this is interesting."

The voice came from behind me. It was the guy from the boardwalk a few days ago, the guy with my hair who rode his bike in the middle of the night. Up close, I realized that I had been right in assuming he was a bit leaner than me, but he actually wasn't all that taller by much. If he recognized me, though, he didn't mention it. He walked into the room, did a glance-over, then looked at Téa and raised an eyebrow.

"It wasn't  _me_ ," she said angrily. "I like how you all immediately think that I did this just because I'm a girl."

"Well," Tristan began.

"Shut up," she snapped. "Look, this must've been a prank or something. I don't know. Let's just refrain from leaving the keys lying around, and start double-checking our locked doors, okay?" This kind of went against what my grandfather told me about people being trustworthy in this town, but I wouldn't point this out now.

"Can we keep the fish?" Duke asked.

"It'll probably just die in a day or two, man," Joey reasoned.

"Hey, if he wants to keep the fish, let him keep the fish," Tristan said, shrugging. "Probably the only person that'll listen to his dumb jokes, anyway."

A few laughs. I suddenly noticed the guy from before, the guy from the boardwalk, who had not said anything this whole time, was staring at me. Not in a creepy way, or a get-out way, or a fascinated way, just… staring. Like he didn't know quite what I was doing here. Truth be told, neither did I.

Téa, thankfully, came to my rescue. "Oh, Yugi, this is Atem. Atem, Yugi was at the bonfire the other night; we met him there. It's a shame you couldn't make it."

The way she said it, cautiously, as if she was stepping around certain words, filled in a few unasked questions about him I had myself. Clearly he hadn't told them why he hadn't made it to the bonfire, and they hadn't asked. But he – Atem – knew that I knew. I didn't know why he'd want to keep the fact that he was riding his bike a secret from his friends, but I wouldn't tell.

"Hey," I greeted, not quite sure what else could be said.

He had looked at Téa as she introduced us, but now looked at me, nodding once. "Yo."

"Yugi also tells jokes that are actually funny," Joey mentioned, and Duke groaned. "Unlike this dice-obsessed – "

"Look, man, if you don't let that go right  _now_  – "

Téa went to break them up as Tristan laughed some more. I scooted away a bit, looking around at the room once more and tuning them out. For some reason, it made me think of my mother; if only because I knew she was the only person who would've had a harder time than I did stepping into this room. I could just imagine her face, how her eyes would narrow in disgust, the heavy, through-the-nostril sigh that would speak louder than the words that came with it. "It's like a womb in here," she'd groan. "An environment totally ruled by gender stereotypes and expectations, as pathetic as those who chose to inhabit it."

I looked over at the fish. It was swimming around, circling the castle, tail swishing back and forth gracefully as it rose to the surface of the water, then dipped back down again, pressing its mouth against the pebbles at the bottom as it searched for food.

"Its name is Calypso," Atem said from behind me.

I looked at him. "Calypso?"

"A Greek sea nymph." Atem came to bend near the fish, examining it. "My friend had a thing for the ancient civilizations; he was always studying stuff like that. When I got this fish, he told me I should name it something profound and interesting. Calypso."

"This is… your fish?"

"Mhm." He glanced back at Téa and the rest of them, who were still squabbling over something or nothing. "I had nothing to do the other night, figure I might as well mess with them. Wanted to see what would happen if I redesigned the Saltwater Room."

It clicked. "You did this?"

"Yeah. Took about four hours, but it's not like I had anything else to do."

Who knew the silent, midnight-bike-riding mystery man was such a prankster? "What'd you say about a saltwater room?" I asked, confused.

He blinked. "Oh, right. That's our nickname for this office. It's right next to the sea," He gestured out the window, "so it's always smelling like saltwater. Not a very clever title, but we are an unimaginative lot when it comes to naming things."

"I wouldn't say that," I said. "Calypso's a pretty interesting name."

He grew quiet, staring at the fish circle around again, and I knew immediately I had said the wrong thing, even if I didn't know why. The way his shoulders shifted, head turned down just slightly, and eyes blinked twice told me I'd probably just killed the conversation. But before what might've been only a momentary pause in the conversation could turn into an awkward silence, Joey called me over.

"Yugi, come tell your panda joke to Téa!  _She'll_ find it funny, not like idiots who only find humor in  _talking muffins_  – "

I looked at Atem once more before deciding the damage was done, and I could not undo it. Maybe there was a way I could tell him I was sorry for opening up a wound, or being insensitive, or something. Maybe there was a way we could somehow connect with that three a.m. meeting on the boardwalk a few nights ago. Maybe we had something in common that would change the way I looked at him forever. Whatever it was, I didn't know it. I didn't know what to say. So I turned my back on him, regretfully, letting the things that were unsaid remain unsaid, and walked back to the others.


	4. a day in the life

The car pulled up to a small, local convenience store. It was getting late, and while staying up didn't bother me, I wasn't sure if I should be worried about where they were taking me.

"Why are we here?" I asked Joey, watching him stack up on chips and liters of soda.

"We're preparing for the night," he said. Then, he added between his teeth as he stuck a pack of beef jerky in his mouth to hold, "Wuh neh tub win enuf fr thpwati."

"What?"

"He said that we need to bring enough for the party," Tristan translated. "You think five packs of Twizzlers will be enough?"

"We're going to a party?"

"Boo- _ya_ ," Joey declared in response, slapping a twenty on the counter. As the clerk – who sighed at our business, which prevented him from locking up for the night – rang up the items, Téa picked out a few packages of candy from the shelf near the magazine rack. In the back of the store, Duke was making Icees for himself and Bakura from a machine that was emitting a dull humming noise as it cranked out ice.

It was… strange, watching them. Interacting with people my age. Being here. While I had studied in Rey's Diner every night with Yumi bringing me coffee every hour, these guys were staying up as well, throwing parties and cracking bad jokes and having fun that I didn't think I would appreciate, or even be allowed.

It was almost enough to make me want to leave. I didn't feel in my element here; this was too weird, too foreign, for me to appreciate the pull I felt for my new friends, though it was odd for me to even call them that. I didn't know how I should be acting with them, or how they even expected me to.

"Oi, Yugi," Tristan called me back to attention. He motioned toward Joey – who was viciously attempting to rip open his newly-purchased package of beef jerky with his teeth – with a look of disgust. "Could you take my keys and open the car for me? Bring back a pen, a sharp one, to open that damn package so the carnivore can have his meat." He held out the car keys to me, and I took them, heading outside while Téa, Bakura, and Duke made their purchases.

Outside, the only things to illuminate the night were the neon shop lights and the stars. I couldn't see the moon. The air was fairly cool for summertime, and I was thankful that I was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.

I walked to the car and saw Atem leaning against the trunk, watching the sky. Arms crossed and staring, relaxed, but still so uptight. He, of all the people I had met here, confused me the most. He and Tristan, the only ones with cars in the group, had driven everybody, dividing the seven of us within the two cars. I had landed in his car, and as Téa and Duke had talked in the back seats, I noticed he remained completely silent, never moving to change the radio station or the AC. He had simply opted to stay out of the conversation and any sort of human contact; and yet, he was never truly impolite or aloof. I had no idea if this was normal for him, or if he was just PMSing, or what, but I didn't question it. Everybody else had accepted his behavior – not that it was particularly unacceptable, if a little odd – and so I figured I would, too.

I now unlocked the door to Tristan's car and turned on the light, searching inside for a pen. Nothing. Not in the cupholders, or under the seats, or in the cracks of the leather seats. Oh, well.

"Check the glove compartment," Atem's voice offered. I looked up; he was watching me through the back window shield. He didn't know what I was searching for, but it was worth a shot.

I opened the handle – and out spilled piles and piles of  _stuff_. Maps, plastic zipper bags filled with old crumbs of long-eaten snacks, sunglasses, CDs, stale macaroni (What the…?), a flashlight, spare change, magazine pages –

"Shit." Atem was opening the door to the front passenger seat in a second, helping me clean it all up and close it before anything else could tumble out. "Sorry. My bad."

I smiled, and for a few moments there was only the sound of us scuffling, our hands collecting everything up as best we could to place it back within the compartment. I wasn't sure if this had been one of those 'organized chaos' things, where everything looked a total pigsty though the individual owner could still somehow tell where it all was, but that didn't matter, since we ended up squishing everything back in as best we could and packing it away. I snapped the handle shut before it came spilling out again. "Thanks."

"Sure," he replied, leaning back on his heels on the seat. He looked down, spotting a stray piece of macaroni on the seat, then tossed it out of the car behind him. "What are you looking for?"

"A pen. Joey's trying to open his package of beef jerky, and we need something sharp to rip it open."

Atem reached into his pocket and handed over a small, red, oval case – a pocket knife.

"Oh – thank you," I said, since I wasn't sure how else to respond to this.

He nodded, then shifted into a more comfortable position in the shotgun seat, with one knee in the air and the other foot resting on the bottom edge of the opening to the car. "So how long are you staying?"

I wasn't sure why he was asking, and I didn't really feel like reading into it at the moment, so I just answered. "The entire summer. I'll need to leave by early September, though."

"School?"

"Yeah."

"Which?"

"Kobe."

Atem blinked, then looked at me. "Really."

"Uh… yeah. Really." I wasn't sure if he thought I was pulling his leg, or if he was just honestly surprised.

Atem huffed in a now-I've-heard-everything kind of way, then turned back to looking at the convenience store. Inside, I could see Joey and Duke were talking to the cashier – who must've been a friend of theirs – as the others looked at the lottery tickets.

"So you'll be here for the comet, then," Atem said suddenly.

"Comet?"

"Halley's Comet." He looked at me as if I should know what he was talking about. "At the end of this summer."

"…Oh, right." I didn't really pay things like that much attention. But yes, if that sort of thing mattered here, then I suppose I would be around for it. "Yeah, I'll be here. Why?"

"There's always a big deal about stuff like that here," Atem told me, shrugging. "A few years ago there was a meteor shower and the whole town turned off their lights and sat on the beach to watch it at like, one in the morning. People got excused for not being at school so they could sleep in. It was ridiculous."

Maybe not ridiculous, but it did sound pretty weird. Just like everything else about this place. "Interesting."

This, surprisingly, got a chuckle out of him. "Mm. Well. Not really. Not if you've lived here forever."

I nodded, slowly, automatically, then stopped. "You know," I started honestly, "I just don't get this."

"Get what?"

"All these… outdoor activities. Going to convenient stores, loading up on snacks, obsessing over bike store names, and analyzing the minutiae of every single choice," I said. "What is this all about?"

He was silent for a minute, tilting his head at me. Then he hooked his thumb out in a gesturing motion toward the store with a questioning glance as if to say "Like this?", and at my nod, he said, "I don't know. It's… we're headed out somewhere. You never know what's going to happen. So you stop for supplies."

"Supplies?"

"The store-going comes first," he went on, "and then the adventure follows."

Everybody was walking out of the store now. Atem and I hopped out of the car so Tristan could take the wheel, and as I handed the pocket knife to Joey, whose teeth had made such large indents in the bag it was a miracle they weren't causing him molar pain yet, I glanced at Atem. He was walking back into the store as everybody headed for their respective vehicles, and I saw him grab two packages of somethings and purchase them at the counter. In a second he was back at my side, the store lights flicking off behind him as the employee closed up; and now he handed one to me. I looked down: a pack of Skittles.

"Might as well," was all he gave as an explanation. Brusque though it might be, it was somehow all I needed to be convinced to reach out and take it from his hand, giving him a thankful nod. Maybe he was right. When you didn't know where you were going, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to have more than you needed.

"Yugi, you coming?" Tristan honked the horn from his car, teasing. "Or should we just leave you here?"

I realized that I was standing in the middle of a dark parking lot looking down a package of Skittles. Atem was already getting into his own car, opening the door on my side of the car automatically with a click of a button.

They were actually waiting for me. I didn't give myself much time to think about what I was doing before I did it: I slid into the car seat next to Atem as he cranked the engine, and then we pulled out of the tiny parking lot as the last of the store lights clicked off, leaving only the stars above and the dim streetlamps to light the way.

It was strange. My entire life, I knew there had been sides: Us and Them. I was always alone, part of the Outside, part of Them. But here, for the first time, as odd as it might have felt, I couldn't deny that I didn't feel something – some kind of excitement, or gratefulness, or whatever – now that I was clearly a part of Us.

* * *

"Oh, God," Duke groaned. "Like we haven't been  _here_  before."

We were in the driveway of a big house right on the beach. There were people packed on the front steps, spread across the lawn, on their cars, lounging on decks; simply everywhere, with even more silhouettes in the lit windows. And cars were still arriving, cramming up the cul-de-sac with such a mess of vehicles that some were even hopping roofs just to get to the sidewalk.

"What, and you think leaving now will preserve our dignity or something?" Tristan asked as another car pulled up.

"I'm not planning to be undignified," Joey declared, opening a case of Tic Tacs. "I just want to have a good time."

"With Mai," Téa added, soft enough so that he couldn't hear.

Duke rolled his eyes. "I still vote out. Nothing fun will come out of this, unless you count 'fun' as having beer spilled on you, or some whorebiscuit grabbing your ass in a crowded hallway."

"Oh, come on, don't get panties in a knot. This might be fun." With that, Joey popped the Tic Tac into his mouth and headed up the lawn, leaving us staring behind him.

Tristan looked to Duke, then sighed. "Come on, swallow your pride and let's go."

He headed to the front steps as well, and Duke followed along behind him, decidedly less enthusiastic. Atem and Bakura started next, and as they made their way across the lawn, Téa turned to me. "It really won't be that bad," she said. "I mean, it's just your typical weekend house party. You know."

I didn't know, though. I had no idea, not that I was going to say so. But I followed anyway, stepping over the beer cans that littered the grass as I went.

Inside the house, it was packed; people filled the hallway, stuffed in everywhere. The only way through was squeezing into a thin passage on the right in a single-file line, and even then it was a tight squeeze. It smelled like Axe and beer and sweat, an odor that grew denser as we headed further in. We eventually reached the living room, where there was a little bit more breathing space. Music was blasting from a stereo that I couldn't locate, and there was a throng of people dancing on one side of the room, mostly girls, while a bunch of guys looked on. In the kitchen to my left, I could see a keg with various liquor bottles scattered around it.

"This is Mai's place," Téa explained to me, nodding at a blonde girl who was dancing with the group in the living room. She was tall, curvy, barefoot, and wearing a purple tank top.

"We need beer," Joey decided. I could hear his voice, but I couldn't see him until he entered my vision, pushing past somebody and handing me a few red cups from somewhere. "Could you fill these, Yugi? You're closest. Thanks."

I looked down at the cups, then at the keg beside me. Joey was now talking with Mai, Téa with Bakura, Tristan and Duke with some redhead, and Atem had vanished, so nobody saw my hesitation before turning to face the keg, where I assumed I was supposed to get the beer. It seemed simple enough, so I picked up the spigot attached to it and turned the top. Nothing happened.

I tried again – nothing – and suddenly got that feeling again, like I didn't belong here. I had never been good at asking for help with anything, especially something that people assumed you already knew. And I knew plenty, but this simple, stupid thing was all new to me.

"So I guess drinking from kegs qualifies as an outdoor activity?" Atem's voice asked me, amused, and I sighed in frustration and embarrassment. He saved me the liberty of answering, however, and put his hands over mine, pressing down on the spigot. Beer spilled from the tap and flowed into the cup.

"Thanks," I said, and moved to fill up another one.

"Of course," he said, then removed his hand and turned, leaning against the counter. "Anything to help out a tourist who doesn't get the frivolous activities of us locals."

I blinked. Was he joking with me? "I'm not a tourist, I'm just… not from here."

"Right. Well. To be honest, I don't see much of a difference."

"That's pretty judgmental of you."

He shrugged and took a drink of his own beer, then did a sweeping glance of the room, as if to end our conversation there.

I finished filling up the cups, then, after handing them out to Joey and everybody, returned to the keg to find Atem had thrown his own away and was snacking on some of the Skittles he had bought earlier. "So," I began, just to say something, "who's this Mai everybody's talking about?"

"Mai? The girl who owns this place. She's a few years older than us. Misplaced her virginity back when she was about fifteen. Joey likes her."

I started. "Really?"

"What, you haven't noticed? I thought it was obvious, the way he was so anxious to get here, how he automatically headed over to her the moment we walked into this little social gathering…"

"No, I meant about the… her… well." I wasn't so shocked enough about this Mai girl enough to notice how he seemed to have said 'social gathering,' in the way somebody might say  _scrotum_  or  _excrement_. He wasn't one for throwing parties and having a large circle of friends constantly surrounding him, apparently.

Which was good, I supposed. Neither was I.

"Ah. Well." He shrugged. "I can't say with certainty. But I wouldn't be surprised."

"You're being judgmental again."

"Sorry," he said, though I couldn't tell if he was kidding or not.

"No, you're not."

He smiled, as if this was cute, which was kind of annoying, but I let it go. Instead, I let my eyes roam, and they settled on Téa – who was watching me with a shocked expression, eyes wide. When I looked back at her, confused, she snapped out of it and turned back to her conversation, waving at me that everything was fine. I made a mental note to ask her about it later.

"Why don't you sleep?"

This question was so unexpected, out of place, that it took me a good second to understand what he was talking about. "What?"

"Last night. Or rather, this morning." He looked at me. "You know what I mean."

I did know what he meant. I just didn't think he would be the one to bring it up. What I knew of his behavior and personality so far had told me that if I ever wanted an answer from him, I'd have to be the one to initiate the conversation, and even then, I might be lucky if I got an answer that made sense. But here he was, surprising me again.

"I just… don't sleep at night." I shrugged. "I'm an insomniac."

He nodded. "Cool." Before I could ask him for more – I wanted more of a response than "Cool?", seriously – he went on, "So what do you do to pass the time? Other than not going to convenient stores or drinking from kegs."

"I study, usually. Drive around. I usually go to this local diner and spend the night there. They have good coffee."

Atem raised his eyebrows, smiling at me in an unreadable way that made me assume he was either impressed or amused by what I was telling him. "Oh?"

"Yeah. But there's not really any place like that around here, so…"

"There's that one place, Hamptons," Atem said thoughtfully. I was surprised to find he wasn't patronizing me – or at least, it didn't look or sound like it. "But it's actually pretty far away, a little over fifty miles. And it's really not all that great anyway."

"Why not?" I asked. A girl pushed past me on their way to the keg, and I stepped aside for them as she filled up her cups.

"The coffee is terrible. And the waitresses are rude." He snorted. "It's not like you're taking up a table someone else wants."

"It sounds like you know it pretty well," I said, and the girl left the keg to go back to her boyfriend with the cups; she took a drink out of one of them before returning to a heavy make-out session with the guy against the refrigerator.

"Only the tourists go there," he said, as if this solved everything.

"So as a local, you learned early on that going to Hamptons counts as the mark of a tourist."

"Pretty much." He looked at me for a few moments, hard, as if he were deciding something. Finally, he asked, "Want to get out of here?"

"What?"

"Do you. Want to. Get out. Of here?" A faint smirk.

I ignored his tone. "Well… yes? I mean, it depends on where I'd leave to go to."

Atem finished the pack of Skittles, tossed the empty wrapper into an overflowing trashcan behind him, then motioned for me to accompany him with a jerk of his head. "Come with me," he said simply, as if that was enough to make me follow. Strangely enough, it was; I headed after him, through the throng of people and eventually out the door to that cool summer night air. He hadn't promised me anything: no reassurances that I'd like where he was taking me, or enjoy the night he was leading me to that stretched out before us, endless with possibilities. The only thing he'd offered, though rather indirectly, was his fascinating company – which maybe, for now, was all I needed.


	5. chasing the moon

"This," I said, "is not a diner."

Two rows of coin-operated washing machines lined one wall, dryers on the other side, with benches leading a path down the middle for those who had the time to sit and watch their laundry spin round in cycles. A few tables were near the end of the room with plastic fold-up chairs and a change machine, over which an  _Out of Order_  sign was taped.

"I didn't say it was a diner," Atem said.

"You didn't say it was a Laundromat, either," I told him.

"Well, you still came, didn't you? You must at least be curious."

"Not really," I said, wary. "Just confused."

He shook his head, smiling, as if I was just impossible, then motioned. "Follow me."

I did, between the rows of benches and to the end of the long room. On the right, hidden behind the change machine, was a thin doorway in the corner, which we took. It turned us left into a short hallway that soon opened up into a wide common room where, sure enough, I smelled coffee.

The place was dim, with polished wooden floorboards and yellow-golden walls that could hardly be seen behind the posters, pictures, magazine covers, and newspaper clippings that were taped or tacked onto it. There was a large window on the other side of the room with faded red curtains to match the maroon chairs that sat against a wall, paired with small circular tables. To the far left was a back door that let in a small breeze. A small counter sat next to it, holding a potted plant, a few newspapers, and dirty coffee mugs. A guy with bronzed skin was reading a magazine behind it. When he looked up and saw Atem, he smiled.

"Yo," he called out. "Haven't seen you in a while."

Atem grunted in response as he moved further into the room, which this guy seemed to find amusing.

"Well, what can I get for you?" he asked, setting aside the magazine.

Atem walked over to the counter. I followed slowly behind him, still observing the room. "That depends," Atem said as he pulled out a stool from under the counter. I was about to get one for myself when I saw him gesture at it and I realized it was for me. "What's on the menu?"

The guy put a thumb to the corner of his lip, thinking. "There's some apple, I think. Rhubarb. Oh, and razzleberry."

"Razzleberry?"

"Raspberry and blueberry. It's a little tart, but also mellow, Duke told me. Worth trying."

"Hm. Okay." Atem turned to me. "What do you want?"

"Huh? Oh, uh… just a coffee would be fine, thanks."

They looked at me. "Just coffee?" the guy asked.

"He's not from here," Atem explained, then turned to me again. "Trust me. You want pie."

"Oh." A bit unnerved, and feeling as if I was being put on the spot, I said, "Apple, then."

"Got it," the guy said and turned around, pulling out two mugs and filling them with a coffeepot that sat in a corner. After handing them to us he reached down and pulled out two plates, then a small platter holding a pie, and dug out two more slices from the circle to give to us.

I drank from my mug first. The coffee  _was_ good. But not as good as the pie. Mmmm.

"There you go," Atem said. "Told you it was better than Hamptons."

"Hamptons?" the guy laughed. "Who's eating there?"

"Marik," Atem said to me, "is a guy who takes pie very seriously."

"Well," Marik said, flattered, "I'm only a beginner at the whole baking thing. I got a late start."

"He owns the bike shop," said Atem. "And this Laundromat. And about four other businesses here, not including the ones he co-runs with his older sister back in Egypt."

"Wow," I said, impressed, and I dipped a fork into the pie.

"Just because I'm good at business doesn't mean I can do a perfect piecrust," Marik said, picking up his magazine again. "Or so I'm learning."

Taking a bite of the piecrust – which seemed pretty damn perfect to me – I looked around the room again. I wondered if all Laundromats held secret hallways that led to local cafes behind their faulty change machines.

"You have to admit, this is much better than driving or reading." Atem's voice brought me back to him, and I smiled, agreeing with a nod of my head.

"Much."

"He doesn't sleep, either," Atem told Marik, who nodded distractedly. To me, Atem said, "Marik bought this place so he'd have something to do at night."

"Yeah," Marik said. "The coffee shop thing, though, that was Atem's idea."

"No, it wasn't," Atem denied, though I could hear something strange in his voice now – a serious tone, lower, though his voice was still rather light (I suspected only for my presence's sake), and if I were Marik I would've taken that as a cue to stop talking.

"Wasn't it?" Marik frowned, not noticing this, as he turned another page. "Thought it was you. At any rate, one of the guys convinced me maybe we weren't the only ones looking for a place to go at night – not to get drunk, at any rate. It beat hanging around here watching the spin cycle eating a pastry or something."

"Spin cycle," Atem said suddenly, blinking. "That's not bad."

Marik paused, mouth halfway toward saying something else, when he closed it and nodded. "Huh. You're right. Write it down."

Atem pulled out his wallet and a scrap of paper. Marik handed him a pen, which he took and scribbled  _Spin Cycle_  to the bottom of the page. It was a list, I noticed, with lots of phrases trailing all over the yellow Post-It.

Marik turned to me in explanation. "We need a name for the bike shop," he said. "We've been trying to think of one for ages."

I had a brief flash of my first day in Owl City, with Joey and the guys hanging outside the bike shop engaged in conversation as I'd passed them on the boardwalk. "What's it called now?"

"The Bike Shop," Atem said, his voice flat. I resisted the urge to laugh, or even raise my eyebrows, but Atem caught my eye and gave me a half-smile. "Nice, right?"

"It used to be called Clyde's Rides, after the guy who owned it before I did," Marik said. "But then the sign got blown down in this storm last year and we figured it was time to rename it anyway."

"Which we've been trying to do, but Marik won't make up his mind."

"I'll know it when I hear it," Marik said, indignant. "Until then, it's The Bike Shop. Because that's what it is."

A phone rang then, and Marik turned to grab it. He stepped out the back door, receiver pressed to his ear, and Atem turned to me. "Well?"

"Pretty good," I said. "And you're right. I never would have found this place."

"The perks of being a local." He took another bite of his pie, and so did I. We sat there for a minute, eating. On the other side of the wall we could hear Marik chatting with someone, a muffled voice behind the screen door. A clock above the doorway ticked, and I glanced up at it: one fifteen.

"So," I said. "What else have you got?"

* * *

I thought I was pretty good at both staying up and staying productive. Atem was the master.

After the Laundromat, we climbed back into his car and headed about ten miles down the road to a twenty-four-hour mart. There you could, at three in the morning, not only buy linens and groceries, but also get your tires rotated. As we walked down the aisle, pushing a cart, we talked.

"So, Kobe," Atem said as he compared brands of microwave popcorn. "That's supposed to be a really good school. Téa's going there."

"Oh, really?" I asked as he pulled down a box.

"Mhm." He chucked it into the cart. "She's a really smart girl." Now he looked at me. "So I guess that makes you brilliant too, huh?"

"Well, I – I guess? I don't… want to be braggy."

"I can understand that." Atem pushed the cart some more, and I walked to keep up with it. Then a thought seemed to strike him, and he looked at me with an eyebrow raised. "So if you're such a brain, how do you not know how to work a beer keg?"

"I'm book-smart," I said. "Not street-smart."

"Ah. Well, I guess that's where I come in to help. I'm just the opposite."

I smiled, though I wasn't sure if this was a joke or not. We continued down the aisle; I watched him take seemingly random items off the shelves and toss them neatly into the cart. He didn't have a list and somehow still knew exactly what he wanted. "Seriously, though," I said. "You're right. I was kind of…"

I trailed off, and once again, he didn't jump in to help me finish. I was finding that I liked that.

"I guess," I went on, "I just missed a lot in high school. Like, socially."

"I doubt it," he replied, stopping to grab a roll of paper towels. "A lot of that stuff is overrated."

"You can say that because you're popular, though."

He glanced at me and we turned a corner, into another aisle. Halfway down, a guy with a long coat was muttering to himself. That was the thing about being out so late – or early. The crazies were, too. Watching Atem, I realized we had the same attitude about it: don't stare, keep a wide berth, and act normal. "What makes you think I was popular?"

"Oh, come on," I said. "You know, like, half the town. And I saw people look up when you walked into the party."

"Okay, fine. I wasn't exactly a wallflower." He took a can of tomato rice soup off the shelf, then another. "But it's not a big deal. It's not like it matters in the end."

"I think it does," I said thoughtfully, examining the growing contents of the cart. "I did all the academic stuff, but I never had that many friends. So there's a lot I don't know."

"Like…"

"Like how to work a beer tap."

He snorted. We moved out of the aisle away from the guy in the coat, who was still muttering, and headed to the diary section, passing a sleepy-looking employee who was stocking cold cuts along the way. "Well," he said, "nothing like risking embarrassment to drive the lesson home. You're not likely to forget it now."

"Yeah," I said, "but what about everything else?"

"Like?"

I shrugged and leaned over the cart as he pulled out some milk, checking the expiration date. Watching him, I thought, maybe it should feel weird to be with him, here, now. And yet, it didn't, not really. That was one of the weird things about the night. Stuff that shouldn't make sense, stuff that would be weird in the bright light of day just wasn't so much once you passed a certain hour. It was like something was alive at night, something that pushed me to walk into Rey's Diner or follow Atem out of the party. I said, "I think it's too late, maybe. All the things I should have done over the last eighteen years, like going to parties or breaking curfew, or – "

"Riding a bike," he said.

I stopped pushing the cart. "What is it," I said, "with this town and bikes?"

"It's not this town; it's just me," he said, making me think of that night on the boardwalk, him doing tricks on his bike as I had watched. "I am in the business. Plus, it's a big part of growing up. And it's not too late."

"Too late?"

"For you. You were just going on about how it's too late to be a kid. I don't think so. Riding a bike is the only thing from my childhood that I really enjoyed enough to keep doing as I grew older, so that's really the main reason why I'm helping out with the shop."

I didn't say anything. We headed toward the registers, where one girl was standing by the only one that was open, examining her split ends.

"Of course," Atem said as he began unloading the cart onto the conveyor belt, "it's not too late for parties or any of that stuff either. But breaking curfew I think you can go ahead and knock off your list."

"Why?"

"Because it's past four a.m. and you're at the Park Mart," he said as the girl began to scan the groceries. "It counts, I think."

I considered this as I watched some apples roll down the belt. "I don't know," I said. "Maybe you're right, and all this stuff I missed is overrated. Why should I even bother with it, though? What's the point?"

"No point," he said. "Why does there have to be one?" He looked at me. "There doesn't need to be a reason. Maybe it's just something you have to do."

He moved to pay and I stood there, thinking about this.  _Just something you have to do_. No excuses or rationale necessary. I kind of liked that.

From the grocery store, we headed over to this home improvement store that Atem told me opened early for contractors. Which we were not, but they didn't seem to care, letting us walk right in. I tagged along as Atem stocked up on a new wrench set, a box of nails, and a value pack of light bulbs: while he checked out, I sat on a bench by the front door, watching the sun now begin to rise over the parking lot. By the time we left, it was almost six, and the rest of the world was finally waking up to join us.

"I saw that," he said as I stifled a yawn while sliding under the front seat of the car.

"It's six," I said. "This is usually when I crash."

"One last stop," he replied.

It was, of course, the gas station from before, with the same teenager from before, now reading the newspaper, behind the counter. A cell phone was pressed to his ear.

"You need anything?" Atem asked, and I shook my head, sliding down a bit more comfortably in the seat as he got out and went inside. As I watched him gather his purchases, I started wondering what I would do the following night. It wouldn't seem right, just staying at home reading a textbook when I could be out exploring the Owl City night life with Atem. I suppose this was my catching up for lost time, making those ridiculous childish memories with someone who was patient enough to help me out with it.

Atem paid and wandered out the door, a bottled water and bag of Doritos in hand. I saw the cashier watch him, his only customer in hours, and when Atem reached the car, he probably saw me too; but I didn't know if he did, because by then I'd already turned to face Atem, my back to the guy, unrecognizable. Just any guy, nodding in reply as he asked if I was ready, finally, to go home.


	6. the whole truth

It had been about a week since my long night out, and since then, my knowledge of Owl City nightlife only continued to expand. All those nights by myself, driving to Rey's, and then through my neighborhoods and streets, stopping now and then at local gas stations. It was only now, with Atem, that I was finding the real night.

It was at the Laundromat, sharing pie and coffee with Marik as he detailed his latest culinary adventures. Dodging the crazies at the grocery store while on the hunt for dental floss, wind chimes, and whatever else was on the list Atem carried around in his head. Going to the boardwalk after last call, when a guy named Valon set up a pizza cart outside the most popular clubs to sell the best slice of cheese – at a dollar fifty a pop – I'd ever had in my life. Fishing on the pier and watching the phosphorescence lighting up the water below. I'd leave my grandfather and the game shop with Joey after closing, hang out with the gang, and make my excuses and head off by myself. Fifteen minutes, half an hour, an hour later, at the gas station, or beach shop, I'd cross paths with Atem, and the adventure would begin.

"How does anyone get to the age of eighteen," he'd said to me the night before, "without bowling?"

We were at the Ten Pin, a bowling alley open late a couple of towns over from Owl City. The lanes were narrow, the benches sticky, and I didn't even want to know what the story was with the shoes I'd rented. But Atem had insisted that I come once he'd heard that this was one of the many things my childhood had lacked.

"I told you," I said as he sat down at the head of the lane, sliding our score sheet beneath a rusty clip, "my parents were not sports oriented."

"You bowl indoors, though," he said. "So you should be, like, pro at this."

I made a face. "You know, when I said that I'd missed out on a lot of things, I didn't mean that I was necessarily sorry about all of them."

"You would be very sorry if you never bowled," he told me, holding out the ball he'd picked out for me. "Here."

I took it, putting my fingers in the holes the way he had. Then he gestured for me to follow him to the top of the lane. "Now, when I was a kid," he said, "we learned by squatting down and just pushing the ball forward with both hands."

I looked at the lanes on either side of us, which were all empty, as it was two in the morning. The only people around were sitting at the bar behind us, which was hazy with cigarette smoke. "I'm not squatting down."

"Fine. Then you have to learn the proper release." He lifted his hands, demonstrating, then stepped forward, lowering an imaginary bowling ball to his side, and then releasing it ahead of him by opening his fingers. "Like that."

"Okay."

Since our first night out together a week earlier, this was pretty much how it had been. A constant back-and-forth, sometimes serious, more often not, stretched out across the hours between when everyone else went home and the sun went up. I knew if I'd spent the same amount of time with Atem during the day, or even early evening, I probably would have gotten to know him, too. But not like this. The night changed things. What we said to each other, the things we did, all took on a bigger meaning in the dark. Like time was somehow sped up and slowed down, all at once.

So maybe that was why we always seemed to be talking about time as we wandered the aisles of stores under fluorescent lights, or drank coffee in a dark room while his clothes fluffed, or just drove through the mostly empty streets, en route to somewhere. Time ahead, like college, and behind, like childhood. But mostly, we discussed making up for lost time, if such a thing was possible. Atem seemed to think it was, at least in my case.

"You know what they say," he'd said to me a few nights earlier as we'd shared Slurpees at the gas station around three in the morning. "It's never too late to have a happy childhood."

I picked up a straw, poking down the red slush in my cup. "I wouldn't say my childhood was unhappy, though. It just wasn't…"

Atem waited, fitting a lid onto his cup with a click.

"…very childlike," I finished. I took a sip, and then added a bit of blue flavor for variety.

"But you  _were_  a kid," he said.

"I was. But in my parents' minds, that was something I could overcome, if I just tried hard enough."

He gave me one of those looks I'd come to recognize, his expression a mix of befuddlement and respect, somehow. "Hmm. Well, in my house, I had the opposite problem. I had too much of a childhood." We paid for our Slurpees and he fidgeted around in his pockets for some cash. "All I've ever done was goof around. I even managed to make playing a living."

"With the bike thing?"

He nodded. "And then you wake up one day, and you've got nothing of value to show for all those years. Just a bunch of stupid stories."

I looked over at him over the top of the car. "If you really feel that way, why do you keep encouraging me to do all this stuff?"

"Because," he said, "you can always break curfew or have a slumber party. It's never too late. So you should, because…"

He trailed off. By now, I knew not to fill in the gap.

"…that's not the case with everything," he said. "Or so I'm learning."

Now, ahead of me, the lights were blinking over the pins, off and on. The lane stretched out ahead, the wood polished and worn. I tried to imagine how, as a kid, it would look even longer.

"You're over thinking," Atem called from behind me. "Just throw it down there."

I stepped back, trying to remember his form, and swung the ball out in front of me. It took flight – which I was pretty sure was not supposed to happen – and then landed with a loud  _thud_. In the next lane. Before rolling, oh-so-slowly, into the gutter.

"Hey!" a voice shouted from the smoking section. "Careful there!"

I felt my face flush, completely mortified, as the ball rolled to the end of the lane, disappearing behind the pins. A moment later, there was another  _thunk_ , and Atem appeared beside me, holding it out again.

"I think I'd better quit now," I said. "Clearly, this is not my strong suit."

"It was your first shot," he replied. "What, you thought you'd get a strike or something?"

I swallowed. In fact, that was exactly what I'd thought. Or at least hoped for. "I just… I'm not good at this kind of thing."

"Because you've never done it." He reached over, took my hand, and then placed the ball in it. "Try again. This time, let go earlier."

He went back to the bench and I forced myself to take a deep breath. It's just a game, I told myself. Not so important. Then, with this in mind, I stepped forward and released the ball. It wasn't pretty – wobbling crookedly, and very slowly – but I took out two pins on the right.

"Not bad," Atem called out as the machine reset itself. "No, really, it's not that bad."

We played two full games, during which he bowled constant strikes and spares, and I focused on staying out of the gutter. Still, I managed couple good frames, which I surprised myself by actually being kind of happy about.

Outside, we walked across the rain-slicked parking lot to my car, leaving the blinking neon sign behind us. "So now you've done bowling, breaking curfew, almost getting exposed as a tourist at a party," he said. "What else is on the list?"

"I don't know," I said. "What else did you do for your first eighteen years?"

"You know," he said as I unlocked the car, "I'm not so sure you should go by my example."

"Why not?"

"Because I have regrets," he said as we climbed into the car and I started the car, driving us out of the parking lot. "Also, I'm a different kind of people."

"What?"

"Different kind of people do different kind of stuff," he explained.

"Like ride bikes?"

"No," he replied. "Like I had food fights. And broke stuff. And set off firecrackers on people's front porches. And…"

"I'm not allowed to set off firecrackers on people's front porches?"

"You can," he said as we ran into a red light. "But you're smart enough not to. That's the difference."

"I don't know," I said. "I think food fights and breaking stuff are equal-opportunity activities."

"Fine. But if you're going to do that firecracker thing, you're on your own. That's all I'm saying."

"Why's that?"

"Just been there, done that. Done the getting hauled down to the police station thing because of it, too. I appreciate your quest and everything, but I have to draw the line somewhere."

"Wait," I said, holding up my hand. "My  _quest_?"

He turned to look at me. We were at a red light, no other cars in sight. "Yeah," he said. "You know, like in  _Lord of the Rings_  or  _Star Wars_. You're searching for something you lost or need. It's a quest."

I just looked at him.

"Maybe it's a local thing," he said. "Fine, don't call it a quest. Call it chicken salad, I don't care. My point is, I'm in, but within reason. That's all I'm saying."

Here I'd thought we'd just been hanging out, or killing time. But local or tourist, I kind of liked the idea of searching for something you'd lost or needed. Or both.

The light finally changed to green, but I didn't hit the gas. Instead, I said, "Chicken salad?"

"What you never said that as a kid?"

"'Call it chicken salad'?" I asked, and he nodded. "Um, no?"

"Wow." He shook his head. "What  _have_  you been doing all your life?"

As soon as he said this, a million answers popped into my head, each of them true and legitimate. There were endless ways to spend your days and nights, I knew that, none of them right or wrong. But given the chance for a real do-over, another way around, who would say no? Not me. Not then. Call it crazy, or just chicken salad. But within reason, or even without it, I was in, too.

* * *

That night, I pulled up to the tiny house that Joey, Tristan, and Duke shared. The yard was mostly dirt with a few clumps of grass, there was a washing machine on the side porch, and a sign hanging over the garage read, inexplicably,  _Sentimental Journey_.

They had invited me to a cookout. A good old cookout, with hot dogs and chips and sodas. "It'll be fun," Joey had said. "Just come on and we'll chill and eat a late dinner or something. You'll have a good time."

I went inside, but the living room was empty, stereo playing, beer cans scattered – mostly uncoastered – across the coffee table. I walked through the kitchen to the back door. Through it, I could see everyone gathered on the back deck: Duke at the grill with Téa beside him, Joey and Tristan sitting side by side on the rail. Ryou looked on from a lawn chair.

"You knew he probably wouldn't show," he was saying to Duke, who was busy turning dogs over the flame. "He's been antisocial ever since it happened."

"It's been over a year now, though," Duke said. "He's got to start hanging out again sometime."

"Maybe he is hanging out," Téa said. "Just not with you."

"Meaning what?" Joey asked. I stepped back behind the open door, waiting for Téa to respond, but she didn't. I knew I probably should've left, or made my appearance, but I couldn't bring myself to move. "That Vivian Wong chick that's been stalking him since forever? I can assure you, that is  _not_  happening."

"No kidding," Tristan said.

"Yeah, but maybe he does have something going on, somewhere else," Ryou said thoughtfully. "When I invited him tonight, he said he'd try to make it, but he already had plans with someone to run errands."

"Errands?" Duke asked. "Who runs errands at night?"

"It didn't make sense to me either," Ryou told him. "But that's what he said."

I looked around the kitchen, and then walked over to a nearby drawer, pulling it open, then the one beneath it. In the third, I found what I was looking for: the Owl City phone book. It was such a small town that only one Laundromat was listed.

"The Washroom, Marik speaking."

I glanced outside again, then stepped closer to the fridge. "Hey, Marik. Is Atem there?"

"You bet. Hang on."

There was a bit of interference, and a short exchange, as the receiver was handed over. Then Atem said, "You are missing out on some  _serious_  apple crumble right now."

"I got dragged to a hot-dog party," I said.

A pause. "Really."

"Yeah." I turned around, shutting the phone book. "Apparently, they are a very important rite of passage. So I figured I should check it out, for my quest and all."

"Right."

For a moment, neither of us said anything, and I realized that it was the first time in a long while that I'd felt nervous or uncomfortable around Atem. All those crazy nights, doing so many crazy things. And yet, this simple phone conversation was hard.

"So let me guess," he said. "Right about now, Duke is probably still cooking hot dogs, even though no one wants any more."

I glanced outside. Sure enough, Duke was at the grill, opening another pack. "Um," I said. "Yeah, actually."

"Joey and Téa are probably starting to argue about leaving."

Another look proved that yes, they did look like they were having a somewhat spirited conversation. "They are."

"And Ryou is probably asleep."

I peeked back at Ryou, who was dozing on the lawn chair. His eyes were definitely closed. "You know," I said, "with all the time we spent together, you could have mentioned you were a psychic."

"I'm not," he said. "You need a ride?"

"I do," I replied without even hesitating.

"Be there in ten."

* * *

"But that's the point," Joey told him as I walked out onto the back porch. The blonde noticed my arrival, and then turned to face me. "Atem doesn't talk. To anyone. Ever. So why is he talking to him?"

No one said anything. I had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that I had just walked into something very personal and very private, something that Atem probably didn't want me knowing about, but for some reason, I didn't excuse myself and leave. Finally, I cleared my throat and said, "Well, I don't know. He just does, ever since this one night when I saw him riding his bike."

Silence. They were all staring at me; Ryou even opened his eyes. Téa said softly, "You saw Atem on a bike? What was he doing?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Tricks? He was jumping around at the end of the boardwalk."

They looked around at each other. Duke said slowly, "You know… I think maybe…"

"Yeah." Tristan sighed, a loud, heavy sound. "Yugi, I'm sorry to bring you into this, but you'd better know."

"What?"

"The thing is," Joey began, "if we're going to tell you about Atem, first we have to tell you about Bakura."

The sun was almost below the horizon now, faint pinks and purples streaked across the sky. The kitchen light behind me cast long shadows into the lawn, and from this angle, I could see everyone's face pointed at me, grim and serious.

"Atem and Bakura," Téa said quietly, "were inseparable. Best friends since kindergarten. You hardly ever saw them apart."

"But they were pretty different," Tristan added. "Bakura just had that tall, dark and handsome thing going on, which now I suppose Atem's picked up… You know, before Bakura died, Atem used to actually be… funny."

My brain had stopped a few seconds back. "Bakura died?" I asked.

Duke nodded solemnly. "It was May of last year. He and Atem were down in Rubix, at this event at Concrete Jungle. They were both sponsored, had been for a couple of years now. They both started out strait at BMX, you know, but then Bakura took up the half-pipe, and Atem stuck more to flatland, at least in competition. But they were both really good at urban, although that's not surprising, considering where we're from."

I just looked at him. Tristan said, "Duke, nobody here understands all that bike shit. Speak English."

"Oh, sorry." He sighed, turning away from the grill and looking out at the sunset. "Bakura and Atem were both really, really good at riding bikes. So good that they got paid to go around and compete at various events, and that's why they were at Rubix."

"And it was after the event," Téa said, still quiet, "when they were driving back from a party, that the accident happened."

"The accident," I said.

Téa nodded. "Atem was driving. Bakura was killed."

I felt my jaw open.

"I know." Joey closed his eyes, as if talking about this made him tired. "I was with Mai when Atem called. We were at her house, and I could hear him on the phone. He was at the hospital and he was trying to talk, but all I could hear was this awful sound he was making…"

He didn't finish, instead just looking out at the sun as well. Ryou said, "It wasn't his fault. They were going through a four-way stop and someone just ran it and hit them."

"An older man was in the other car," Tristan added. "He'd had a stroke behind the wheel."

Téa nodded. "It tore Atem up, big time. It was like Bakura took some part of him when he went, you know? He's never been the same."

"He gave up all his sponsorships, the riding, everything," Duke said. "He'd gotten into college at the U and deferred to keep competing, but he didn't go there either. He just got a job managing the bike shop and stopped riding altogether."

Téa glanced at me. "Or so we thought."

"I just saw him doing it that one night on the boardwalk," I told her. "It was really late. Or really early, actually."

"Well," Ryou said, "I guess that means something. What, I don't know. But something."

Everyone fell completely silent, I assumed because they were all contemplating this. Then I realized it was because Atem had appeared behind me in the open kitchen door.

"Don't ask me," he said. We were all staring at him. His voice was comparatively normal compared to our heavy tones. "I just came for the hot dogs."

"Hot dogs, right," Duke said. "Here, have one – " He grabbed a bun, stuffed a dog into it, and thrust it out toward him. Atem raised his eyebrows, then took it. "Thanks."

"No problem," Duke said rather loudly. "Lots more where that came from, too. Plus there's chips, and baked beans, and – "

"Duke," Tristan said, his voice low. "Chill out."

"Right," Duke replied just as loudly. "Then, in a somewhat more subdued tone, he added, "We have Popsicles, too."

Everyone looked at Atem again. It was so awkward and tense, you would have thought we were at a wake, not a cookout. Then again, maybe we kind of were.

"Come on, Yugi," Atem said finally, his voice unreadable. "You said you needed a ride."

"Oh – right," I said. I meant to say more, but my voice closed up and wouldn't let any words out; my throat was too dry.

Out in the parking lot, the wind was warm and blowing hard, and for a moment I just closed my eyes and stood there, feeling it on my face. Atem walked to the car and opened the door for me, then walked around to his side and climbed in without even waiting. I gave a quiet sigh, considering my options; then, deciding almost without hesitation, I joined him in the car and he drove us away.


	7. lines in the sand

"So," he said, as we walked into the bike shop. "What'd you want to talk about?"

"Um."

He shut the door, locking it behind me. I followed him through the dark shop to the back, into the Saltwater Room. By now, the room had been redone, the walls repainted and the furniture de-oranged. Everything was back to grays and blues, certain patches shining bright by the moon and streetlights shining through the tiny window. The desk had turned back into what was some kind of repair area. There were parts of bikes up on stands, wheels leaning against workbenches, a pile of gears on a table, tools everywhere. In one corner, where a bike was partially assembled, a handwritten sign said  _Duke's Workspace – Touch and Die!_  with a skull and crossbones underneath.

"Have a seat," Atem said, waving a hand at Duke's stool right beside this.

"Seems dangerous."

He glanced at the sign, then rolled his eyes. "It's not." He slid behind a nearby cluttered desk, which was piled high with papers, various bike parts, and, not surprisingly, a collection of empty soda bottles and various convenience store items. "So you asked me to take you some place quiet. Any specific reason?" He lifted an eyebrow.

 _Atem doesn't talk_ , Joey had said.  _To anyone. Ever._  But he had to me, and maybe that did mean something, even if it wasn't clear just what.

"I don't know," I said. "I just… I thought you might want to get away from that. I thought you might want to talk, or something."

Atem shut the drawer, slowly, and looked at me. The click noise it made seemed very loud. "Talk," he said, his voice flat.

"Yeah." He was just sitting there, staring at me, expressionless, and I felt not unlike when my mom got me in her sights, a serious squirm coming on. "We're together, this place is out of the way, alone…"

"Oh, I get it," he said, nodding. "Right. You know now."

"Know…"

He shook his head. "I should have known when I saw you at the door. Not to mention at that party. None of them are exactly known for holding back information."

I just sat there, not sure what to do. I said, "Look, I'm sorry. I just thought…"

"I know what you thought." He picked up a stack of papers, rifling through it. "And I appreciate you feeling bad for me, or whatever. But I don't need it. Okay?"

I nodded numbly. Suddenly the room seemed too bright, illuminating every single one of my failings. I slid off the stool. "I should go," I said. "It's late."

Atem looked over at me. I remembered how that first night, I'd thought of him dark, mysterious, perhaps a bit troubled, before I even knew this was true. He said, "Do you want to know why I talk to you?"

"Yeah," I said. "I do."

"Because," he told me, "from that first day on the boardwalk, you were different. You never tiptoed around me, or acted all weird and sorry for me, or gave me that look."

"What look?"

"That one," he said, pointing at my face. I felt it grow red. "You were just… normal. Until tonight."

Until tonight. Atem was still rummaging around in the drawer, his head ducked, and again I thought of him that first night we'd met, on the pier, doing tricks. What an odd thing to do at night, I'd thought, but that had just been Atem. Just Atem. His way of coping.

"What are you really doing out so late?" I asked.

"I don't sleep at night."

"Why not?"

He looked a bit annoyed. "I don't know. I just don't."

I didn't push him. I knew the answer would come in time, even if he didn't tell me straight-up. Looking for something to do, I let my eyes wander, drifting over all of the bike parts and posters on the wall, some faint traces of pink paint in a few areas. On the left was the window, still giving that beautiful view of the night ocean, letting in the salty smell of the sea. The goldfish was still in its bowl, swimming around lazily.

"He was Bakura's."

I looked back up at him. "Excuse me?"

Atem had stood and followed my line of sight. Now, he glanced over at me, then looked back at the goldfish. "Calypso. He was Bakura's."

I couldn't think of anything to say to this. So I just let him talk. There wasn't much else for me to do.

"He was my friend, the one I told you about," he said. "The one who had a thing for ancient civilizations. Remember? I told you about it."

I did remember; he had mentioned Calypso being the name of some Greek sea nymph. "Yes."

"That was Bakura," he said, nodding. "He was the creative one. He came up with the name for the fish. He was the one who came up with the name for the Saltwater Room. He was the one who came up with the idea to have a coffee shop behind the Laundromat." I could see his hands clenching, suppressing some unknown emotion that I was sure he was having trouble dealing with, at least by himself. "But there was a catch."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, and huffed out a laugh. "He was a total asshole."

I could think of nothing to say to this.

"He really was. He was my best friend, but he was completely rude to everyone except me. Actually, no. Including me. Especially me." Atem looked at me and tried to smile, but it turned out looking more like a grimace. "Not many other people were willing to put up with him. But I did. He was my best friend. I don't know why. He just was."

His lips twitched. "I tend to get angry whenever somebody mixes the two of us up. Marik thought that it was my idea to have the coffee shop, but it wasn't. It was his. It just pisses me off that somebody could… forget him like that. It just…"

He trailed off, and I spoke up slowly. "…Sucks," I finished for him, and he nodded.

"Yeah. Sucks."

We grew quiet. I was still watching the fish, but when I sneaked a look at him, I could see he was watching me, carefully. I tried my hardest not to shy away from him – not give him "That Look," not be too uncaring, not be too emotional for him…

"You don't have to do that."

"What?"

He seemed to grow madder with every word I said. "Pretend. If hanging out with me is too much  _stress_ , then you don't have to do it. You don't have to pretend to be a friend just to make me feel better. Don't patronize me."

I knew it was irrational, but I could feel my own temper rising as well. "Fine, then. What would  _you_  like me to do?"

"Well, what've you been doing for the past week?" Atem demanded. "Has it been  _difficult_? Have you absolutely hated it?"

"What are you talking about?"

He kicked the metal cabinet in frustration, releasing a loud clanging sound that reverberated around the room. I rose from the chair and tried as best I could to hold my ground. "I'm  _talking_  about you being the only person I could relate with. I'm  _talking_  about you being someone that didn't judge me, that didn't have to know everything about my life – "

"Hey, I didn't ask, I wasn't poking around – "

" – and I'm  _talking_  about you and me. That's all we were. That's all the both of us wanted to be. There was no trying to make me feel better or trying to satisfy ourselves – "

"I'm not sure that's entirely true," I said quietly. "I think there's something more."

"Oh?"

He was still staring at me, breathing hard, eyes narrowed, but I knew that anger only covered up the disappointment, the hurt. I took a breath and plunged on. "You're not doing this for me, for my dumb quest. You're doing this for yourself."

He arched an eyebrow. "Really. And you think you know enough to decide that?"

"No, of course I don't. This is all based on what I gather and see and hear. I think you miss him more than you let others know."

Atem suddenly walked over to other side of the room, fast, like he was going to leave – but then he turned around and stomped over to another corner, took a breath, released – then turned around and looked at me. I knew he needed this, needed to get this out, but I wasn't going to help him do so and if he was going to start yelling again –

"Of course I miss him," he said quietly, staring at my shoes. He narrowed his eyes even more, this time not in anger, but what looked like concentration, as if he was digging this out of some deep well he had tossed it into.

"…Sorry. I didn't mean to say you didn't."

"No, I got what you meant. I just – I don't know."

We both knew. He was just being difficult and didn't want to acknowledge it.

I couldn't help smiling. "Is it heavy?"

"Is what heavy?"

"All that pride."

He looked at me.

"Look, you can hate me for doing this if you want. I'll only be here for a while. I don't have to be your friend. If it'd be easier if I left, you can just say so."

"I don't want you to le – "

"But I want to help. Not out of pity or anything, y'know? I just care. I'm that kind of person."

Atem just watched me.

"I just don't want to see you miserable," I finished quietly. "You're just some guy I've just met, which is weird, but I care about you. More than you seemed to imply. I care about you enough to feel sad that your friend died, sure, but you don't need pity right now, and I know that. I just want – I guess – um." I looked away. "I forgot what I was going to say. But still, you matter more than your grief does. I don't want to see you wallowing in it."

"I'm not wallowing – "

"I know you're not. If our nights together have proven anything, it's that you want to move on. You just don't know how. And I want to help… where I can, at any rate."

He didn't say anything for a minute, just staring at the floor now. I fiddled with the pocket of my jeans. I wasn't good at talking about this kind of stuff; all instinct was telling me to go. I just didn't want to leave him like this, but I didn't like what I'd just said: I'd confessed too much, hadn't I? Was it too soon to care about someone the way I cared about him? We barely knew the basics of the other's lives, hadn't even gone into the finer details. But I knew the way he would sigh when I'd said something dumb, how he could laugh on that rare occasion I said the right joke, the way he would always hold out the door for the other person to allow them to go first.

It wasn't much. But it was a start.

"So what about you?" he asked finally.

"What?"

"Why don't you sleep at night?"

"It used to be because my parents were up fighting," I said. "But now… I don't know."

He watched me quietly. "I think," he said eventually, "this calls for pie."

* * *

"Atem, you are such a moron," Marik said after I'd explained the whole deal. "No, just stop," he stopped him as Atem tried to start an argument. "You can't seriously tell me you didn't expect this thing not to blow up later on."

"I wasn't thinking about later," he said, huffing, as he glared at the floor. "I just wanted to hang out somebody that didn't know."

I chewed a bit faster so I could talk without my mouth full: "It's okay. I get it. It's not a big deal anymore."

"It is a big deal," Marik told me, setting aside his magazine and reaching for a slice of his own apple crumble. "I don't know if you've realized this yet, Yugi, but Atem's a total drama queen."

"I change my mind," Atem said suddenly, standing and taking my hand. "We shouldn't have come. We're leaving. Goodbye, Marik. You won't be seeing us again soon."

"Hold on." Marik reached across the counter and grabbed my other hand to prevent Atem from pulling me out the door. "Let me rephrase that. Atem's not a drama queen. He just wants attention."

Atem growled.

"I didn't mean that in a bad way," Marik said defensively, frowning as he stabbed at the crust of his pie. "Yugi, he just feels a bit lonely."

"And who are you to assume what I feel?"

"I'm a friend that's been watching you beat yourself up over the death of one of my other friends for the past year," Marik said evenly. "And don't take this the wrong way, Atem, but you really  _can_  be a moron sometimes."

"Well how could I possibly take that the wrong way?" he droned.

"Wait," I said, "could we go back? Before the drama queen thing?"

"Well," Marik said, "I'm not sure if I should, if His Majesty Atem is going to  _growl_  at me again."

"Just tell him," Atem sighed, and sank himself back into the stool as he let go of my hand.

"Right. Well." Marik straightened a bit, then leaned over, closer. "I don't know if you've noticed, but Atem  _does_  like attention. But in a good way – I mean, he deserves it. After the accident everybody pretty much left him alone to grieve. Now, with such a charming and outgoing personality like his that needs to be adored and worshiped at regular intervals, you can imagine what that did."

"Not much good."

"Bingo. My point is, he likes you. Just be gentle, okay? His feelings are  _very fragile_."

Atem stood for the second time and grabbed my hand, pulling me out of the room. I was holding back laughter now, trying to stay serious for Atem, but the irony of Marik only making things ten times worse with his counseling had me chuckling.

He pulled me out of the Laundromat and we walked to his car. I hopped in the front seat and Atem into the driver's, but he made no motion to start the car. I was still laughing. "Oh, I'm sure he didn't mean it, I – "

"I don't want attention," he said quietly.

I sobered immediately. "Atem – "

"I didn't mean to drag you into this. You don't have to stay with me."

"Nothing's making me stay," I said. "I'm here because I want to be. Remember?"

"…Yeah. All right." He put the key in the ignition but didn't turn it, just gripping the wheel. His fingers tightened. "I just – " His head dropped down and his shoulders started to shake. For one shocking second I thought he was crying, but then he threw his head back up and laughed, loud and long.

When he came back down, he rubbed his forehead with a hand and turned the key. "Marik is such a jackass."

"I'm sure he meant well…"

"Of course he does. He's just an idiot." He pulled us out of the parking lot and out into the empty road. "I shouldn't have brought you there. We don't need his help."

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know. Nowhere. Everywhere. Where do you want?"

"Nowhere sounds okay to me."

"All right, then," he said, and he pulled us out onto the highway. "Let's see where this road takes us. Maybe we'll find another Laundromat with a better server in the back room so that we don't have to put up with the shit Marik spouts every night."

As I laughed, I noticed the clock on the dashboard. 12:03 AM. It was already tomorrow. But I had a feeling it was going to be a really good day.


End file.
